


Heaven Can Wait

by moon_crater



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: 'How Much Can I Hurt Benny Without Killing Him? Let's Experiment!': The Novel, Ableist Language, Banter, Benny's Overactive Imagination, Benny's a closet romantic but you didn't hear it from me, Benny's also a cad but we knew that, Canon-Typical Violence, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Implied/Referenced Sex, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mild Femdom, Mild Gunplay, Minor Character Death, Power Imbalance, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Snark, Strong Hurt/Mild Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-06-10 10:48:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 52,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6953545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_crater/pseuds/moon_crater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benny, a bed, and bad decisions that will come back to bite him. Twist his arm and maybe he'll admit her being naked has something to do with it. <em>Maybe</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ...this is paradise, gazing at all your charms...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SynthApostate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SynthApostate/gifts).



> For SynthApostate, who cannonballed into the fandom 'cause I asked. If I'm a ring-a-ding dame, she's a real barn burner broad. And since I can't let her outpace me…*first strains of dueling banjos*
> 
>  **Advisories:** I'm unsure how to warn for this, but a bit of this chapter flirts with dubious consent. However, while there's a lot of lecherous thought and a questionable ogling, no actual sexual contact occurs under these conditions, so strictly speaking there isn't dubcon. Still, a head's up for anyone who needs it. There's also some canon-typical, character appropriate ableist themes and language regarding sanity.

* * *

_Men are like linoleum floors. Lay 'em right and you can walk all over 'em for years._

— _Pre-War Actress Mae West_

* * *

He's been staring at the same yellow stain on the wallpaper over the dresser for an hour now. In that time he's traced its jagged lines, idly grappled with whether it's from centuries old blood or weeks old whiskey, and turned a few dozen facts over to look at them and figure their angles. Benny's an observant guy, always has been, the kind who reads a room to find all its potential exits and load bearing walls before taking a step inside. It's what's kept him alive so long. This morning there are new facets to consider, and complications and consequences to go along with all of 'em, so he's been taking inventory.

His cigarette's nothing but filter and a pillar of ash by the time he snaps out of it.

Benny's got one hand wrapped around the back of his neck, the other dangling off the edge of the bed. He's probably burned a hole in the carpet, but he's finally getting his head straight, at least.

Item the first: the dame with her head pillowed on his bicep, tucked into his side all soft and warm like she lives there. The should-be corpse. A lot more...what's that word? Fuck, he read it in a book once. Was real proud of himself for bein' able to sound it out and work out what it meant from the context, too. _Ambulatory_? More ambulatory than he likes his dead bodies to be. Clawed her way out of the sand to track him across the desert with nothing to go on but some jangled memories and grit.

Complication: laid him like a tile floor. Not the odds he would have figured from somebody he planted in the ground, but okay. Vegas. Takes all kinds. Even cuckoos. Maybe even _especially_ cuckoos. He sure as shit ain't confident he's sane after last night. She fucked her murderer, he fucked his murderee. Not clear on which of them is the real sucker in this scene, but somebody's long overdue for getting their head examined.

He glances down at her, at the accusing scars along the side of her head. She snores. Not a cute little snore, either, like the Gommorah girls fake when you pay for the girlfriend experience, but real log sawing. It's what woke him up in the first place. Probably's had her nose broken a few times on her little trek to find him.

Consequence: he's not sure what to do with her yet.

The obvious solution is to kill her, but that didn't work out so hot last time, and he's feeling gun shy. Lead poisoning was too subtle. Explosives next time, maybe. Sure, that's the ticket. Let's see her try to get up and follow him in pieces.

A smirk twists his lips. It'd be just his luck she'd survive getting her limbs blown off and crawl across the Mojave to him on the stumps.

Benny'd probably sleep with her again even so. Apparently, he likes 'em busted up and squirrely.

He flicks his cigarette into the ashtray on the bedside table, takes another one out of the pack and lights up.

Could always make an ally of her. Neutralize her that way, even though it's playing against type. He ain't soft on her—at least, he doesn't think so—but last night, after he “fell asleep,” he felt cold steel against his temple and she didn't pull the trigger. She could have capped him— _should_ have—but instead she ran her fingers through his hair and sagged against him to sleep. That's got to count for something.

If Benny's honest with himself, he's also bothered by not knowing her motives. She can't be any softer on him than he is on her, he fucking _shot_ her, but she takes him to bed _and_ lets him live? It don't make sense. She's a real closed book, and _being_ a details guy, he wants to crack her open to rifle through her pages, size her up, figure her out. Maybe they were a nice diversion in the pre-war, when they were in dime novels, but any mystery is a threat or a weapon out here in the apocalypse. He can't figure which she is yet.

Letting her keep breathing's not the smart thing to do, exactly, but that line he fed her about finally bein' able to get some shut-eye knowin' she hadn't bought it wasn't _all_ lie. He still has a conscience, kinda; maybe not a real well developed one, but a real noisy one. It thinks he owes her _something_.

(Besides, a better developed part of him that's even louder thinks it's a shame to let a pair of peaches like hers go to waste, never mind his other new favorite parts of her anatomy and the things she can do with 'em. _Wow._ )

The courier—and he should ask her name sometime, though he's content to stay settled on pet names for now—shifts against him and rolls off his arm. Her head falls back on the pillow, chin pointed right up at the ceiling with her mouth fallen open, and the snores get worse. If she was sawing that log before, she's going at it with a ripper now.

Benny taps the dimple in her chin with the pad of his pinky in a gesture that might look affectionate _if_ anybody was lookin' and lived to tell about it, then pops the underside of her jaw with a couple of knuckles to snap her mouth closed. The noise coming out of her face dials back to a dull roar.

Item the second: the platinum chip burning a hole in his jacket pocket on the floor. He can practically see it glow through the checks, all cuddled up next to Maria like they belong together. And, he thinks, maybe they do.

Complication: hell, he'd need to make a list. Start with “A” and work his way on through the alphabet till he ran out of pencil. A fair few of those snarls spring from sleeping beauty here.

She's been in the Lucky 38, and that means she's seen House. House, who wants the chip. House, who'll be _real_ put out to find out he's got it, provided he don't already know. House, who probably sent her to kill him before she decided to screw him silly instead.

Even if Benny can turn her loyalties his direction with some quality sexual groveling, he's not sure House can't turn her back with the promise of half her weight in caps. Being purely practical about it and setting his male pride aside, she'd have to be stupid not to take that offer. From what he hears, she ain't stupid. He could spend weeks worshiping that body in all the ways his fevered imagination could devise and still end up with a knife between his ribs for his troubles. Not a bad way to go, if he had to pick one, but not the best plan for Vegas, either.

From where he's sitting, being chummy with House is three tally marks in the “kill her” column. So. Taking a hit of his cigarette, Benny sits up and reaches for his jacket beside the bed. Fishes around in the inside pocket for his best girl, and pulls her out.

It's all real tragic, he reflects, stamping out his smoke in the ashtray, but that's how it goes. Just business.

He leans back in bed, turning onto his side so he can face her and propping himself up on one elbow. It'll be messy this way, and he'll end up with blood on him, but it'll be intimate, and that feels right somehow. Besides, messy's better than he deserves, really.

So far, his luck's held out. Through all this, she hasn't stirred. For somebody who refused to stay in a grave, she sure sleeps like the dead. Well, that'll make this easier, won't it?

He points the gun at her head, right over the scars his last two lead kisses left, and brushes her hair aside with the barrel. At Goodsprings, he got stingy with his bullets. This time he'll dig deep, give from the heart, and unload the whole clip.

Benny flicks the safety off, sure that'll wake her, and he'll get to see those eyes all sleepy before they go dull like glass, but she keeps snoring. One corner of his mouth twitches, but he doesn't let it bloom into anything that might be fond. He leans in real close, puts his nose in her hair, breathes her and that wild cactus flower smell in one last time.

“Ciao, Pussycat,” he murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss to her hair. “It's been swell.”

There. Real classy. What a line to go out on. Pure romance. That ought to be it.

He sways back, presses the muzzle of the gun right into her skin and gets ready to fire.

Only...

He trails Maria from her temple, over the curve of her cheekbone and then under her chin.

Better. Less likely for bullets to ricochet off that thick skull and put his eye out. He rests his finger on the trigger proper, and takes a real deep breath. On the count of three, then.

One.

Two.

Thr—

Then again…

Benny frowns. She walked away from head shots. Maybe the heart would be a safer bet.

It ain't that he's stalling, understand, he just wants to do it right. She deserves the very best. He drags Maria down along the line of her jaw toward her ear, down the gentle slope of her neck, then over her collar bone. He lets the gun dip into the hollow of her throat on its way further south, pulling back the sheet with it. He could do this over the sheet, but hell. One last look at the goodies. Can't knock a guy for that. Not his fault her breathing jiggles 'em so nice.

He stops. Stares more than he means to. Licks his bottom lip and finds it a little too easy to think about putting Maria on the nightstand so he can dip his head, drop his mouth over one of those nipples and suck. Maybe palm and pinch the other one so it doesn't feel left out. Nothin' sadder than any part of a well built broad suffering neglect.

If that agreed with her and she came to moaning his name, he wouldn't complain. He could slide right over, give her a wake up call she'd never forget, and keep the conversation going till afternoon…

After that, maybe dinner. To keep their strength up, dig? Dancing, even. Gotta stay limber. He'd have to get her a dress, of course. No problem there, gotta be one lyin' around one of the rooms somewhere. She'll make a fine piece of arm candy, and when they're properly refreshed, it's back to the suite for rounds four through seven...

Then, if their bones ain't turned to liquid, at dawn he can take her to the ninth floor and its single, unbroken eastern window. Clear out the joint first, make sure they don't have an audience, but once they're alone? Oh, yeah. Slide in behind her, push her up against that glass and put her palms on it, maybe keep his hands over hers. _Platinum_ _._ He'll watch the sunrise paint highlights in her hair when it spreads over the horizon, press his lips to the side of her neck...

Shit. He realizes. Shit. Shit. He's thinking about _tomorrow_? _Him and her and_ _ **tomorrow**_? And in the present tense, yet, not abstracts?

For _fuck's_ sake. He's losing his grip.

Benny pulls the gun away—not quite fuming, but not real happy either. He's even alarmed his brain decided to take a cruise in a dreamboat while he had the fuckin' thing over her heart.

All right, strictly speaking, _maybe_ he's a little soft on her. He won't go so far as sweet, but a little soft. Out of guilt. And lust. Mostly lust. Sure. Lust he can live with.

Fine. She lives. Hopefully that decision won't come back to bite him in not-fun ways, but it probably will. If it does, he'll drop some dynamite in her drawers and hope for the best. If she fights her way back from that and plugs him, it'll only be fair.

Benny crawls out of bed to get dressed. On the way, he trades Maria for a fresh cigarette and runs his fingers through his hair, not too sure if he's smoothing it or making it worse. Now he's back to square one with complications.

“Must have fuckin' rocks in my head,” he mutters around his cigarette, scooping his pants off the floor and pulling them on. Letting her off the hook means running the risk of her goin' straight to House when she wakes up. Sure, he could always try to convince her to stick around for some heavy breathing, play some of those scenes that ran through his head earlier, but he can't keep her busy that way forever. Much as he'd like to, he thinks with a shake of his head, he's only human.

(An errant thought of Yes Man keepin' her occupied while he recuperates between rounds floats across his brain, but he tamps it down. He ain't got time to install any fancy attachments. Besides, while it'd be fun to watch her writhe in his bed while he did other things—and there goes another errant thought of him doin' the books to the sounds of her moans while Yes Man's doin' her—he wouldn't want her developin' a preference for cold steel and tireless pistons and _f_ _ucking hell what is he_ _ **thinking**_ _?_ Now he's getting preemptively jealous of a tub of bolts with the personality of a cereal mascot? He has _got_ to get this dame out of his system.)

So, where does that leave him? He'll have to make a move with the chip before she checks in with House, whether she sells him out or not, to be on the safe side. Otherwise, he'll be starin' down an army of Securitrons before he can blink Fortification Hill's direction, much less get there. If he can find a way to stall her after he's gone, give her second thoughts maybe, even better. Can't afford to stick around and try to convince her to side with him, though. If she wasn't havin' it, they'd scrap and she'd cut out on him to head to the Lucky 38; and if she _was_ receptive to his reasoning, he might get...distracted.

Still puffing on his cigarette, Benny threads the tongue of his belt through the buckle and fastens it tight.

He should leave a note, he thinks, tugging his shirt on and snapping the collar a few times to get the worst of the wrinkles out. Nothin' sappy, but something... _cozy_ enough to make her think twice about gettin' sore that he's disappeared. Sore enough to forget that beautiful music they played and go rat on him the second she's through rubbin' the sleep out of those baby blues.

Or...he pauses in buttoning his shirt...browns? Hazels, maybe? So he hadn't been paying attention to her eyes. Too much else on offer to keep his peepers busy for him to notice a thing like that. She had two of 'em, they weren't mismatched, what else was there to know? He finishes with the buttons and slides his tie under the collar.

Note, note….what to write in a note…

 _Baby—_ no. He's called every skirt from here to New Reno _baby,_ with rare exception. The blonde vaultie who sounds like sunshine but tastes like antiseptic gets chickadee, on account of her cage. Ortal, the Follower with the nimble fingers and the nimble brains is stuck with doll 'cause it makes her equal parts blush and fume and he likes the way that mix looks on her. A few others, here and there, get their own little tags for him to remember 'em by when the moonlight and roses are through, but the majority…well, if he's honest, they just ain't special enough to bother.

This one, though...she deserves something of her own.

 _Pussycat—_ better.

He ought to say something about last night, perfect lead-in and all. No problem there, that'll come without plannin'. Won't even have to strain himself. Might have to rein himself in before he starts waxing poetic about her charms and the dexterity she uses 'em with, but he won't have to strain himself. He'll figure it out when he's got the paper in front of him.

Next bit's the tricky part. Gotta be sugary enough to quench her anger, but not so much she'll be in a hurry to follow. He needs her to stay out from under foot for things to go smooth. Should be easy enough to be a charming bastard; he's had a lifetime of practice.

“Wish I could stick around”? Nah, she wouldn't believe it, and she'd be right not to. Make it “stay for another round,” nothing too serious. Remind her how much fun they could have had. Dinner, dancing, that private sunrise. Or maybe he should keep that part to himself. Benny's never been great with romance; he ain't too sure how much is too much. Probably better to leave it to _her_ imagination. Always leave 'em wanting more.

He glances back at the bed, where she's lyin' all twisted up in the sheets, mouth half open like she's waitin' for a kiss. Those bits of hers are still bared to the air like he left 'em, rising and falling as she breathes, and he admits it to himself: _he_ wants more. And if he didn't have places to be…

But he does. And Vegas will always come first.

Ah, hell. He finds paper and a stub of a pencil, scrawls down everything that's in his head. It comes out mushy and overdone, and he's pretty sure she'll notice he can't spell half of what he put down. He crumples it up and tries again. Goes too far in the opposite direction, he realizes halfway through the first sentence. Other women have slapped his face for less.

All right, third time's the charm. And he does hope charm is the right word for it. There's no time to do it again. She's shifting around like she might wake up soon.

He leaves the note sitting out where she can see it. Takes the other two with him, because it would be downright embarrassing if she found either of those.

She moans in her sleep, almost as sweet as she moaned into his mouth when he first laid her down on the bed, and his legs don't want to take him out of the room. He stops at the mirror to swipe his fingers through his hair, knowing he's stalling, but he tells himself he's got an image. Can't let anyone see him with a hair out of place, or they'll know. Not what he's up to, maybe, but they'll know there's something to know.

Benny straightens his tie, smooths his lapels. At last, he picks up Maria, kisses her tenderly and slips her into his pocket. He gives the dame in his bed one last look, and steps away.

A moment's hesitation. He thinks better of it, and steps back again, bending to press a kiss to her collar bone. One corner of her mouth lifts in sleep and she makes a quiet happy sound that does stuff to his insides. She's put quite the whammy on him, this one. When the trouble dies down—as much as it ever does, anyway—he'll have to take her to bed for a week to get the fire she's lit out of his blood. He won't be thinkin' clear until he does.

“I'll be back for _you_ , Pussycat.”

Yeah. If everything goes the way it should...well, he ain't too sure what the chip does exactly, but it's got to be something good. Something strategically valuable. Something that'll put him on top. This time next week, he'll be more powerful than House, so long as she doesn't follow him to blow his cover or his head off.

God, Benny thinks, swinging the door to his workshop open, he hopes that broad ain't clingy.


	2. ...it's heavenly in your arms...

Benny makes it through two broken fingers, a loose tooth and three— _four?_ —cracked ribs before he starts hoping she _is_ clingy. Clingy with enough foresight to bring an army with her. NCR, Securitrons, trained radroaches outfitted with combat helmets and laser cannons. He's not exactly feeling picky. Even if he were, she's the only one who knows where he is and might— _might—_ see fit to come after him.

He's not too proud to let her rescue him if she's feeling generous enough to do it, or bow down and kiss her boots if she does. He'll spit-shine 'em if she asks, and scrub the blood and gore off with his precious sport coat, so long as she comes before they _beat him to death_.

His brain rattles inside his skull when a power fist knocks his head to the side. Between gaps in the stars circling his head, he sees the tent flap move.

Before he blacks out, he realizes it ain't her.

* * *

 

 For _three days_ it ain't her.

* * *

 

 Four.

* * *

 

 Five. Jesus, she's takin' her sweet time, ain't she?  

* * *

 

It's a week before she strides into the camp to meet with the head man and wink Benny's direction with some loose talk about crucifixion. He didn't figure her for being so tasteless, toying with a guy in his predicament, but he should know better. She slept with _him_ , didn't she? Not exactly a mark of refinement.

It's a week and a half (and a half? what was she doing in that bunker, twiddling her thumbs?) before she busts into Caesar's tent with a rusty scrap dog and a punch happy honey in power armor topped with a fuckin' _sun hat_. Decked with ribbons, like she's going to Sunday service, for fuck's sake.

(Sure, he's never been clear on what Sunday service is, but he knows you get dressed up for it. Probably some kind of pre-war sex thing. They were kinky back then. He knows, he's seen books and holotapes. Real offbeat, with their bee-dee-ess-em and key parties and “Carole Lombards,” which he's pretty sure is a real tricky position you're supposed to do with a blonde. Or maybe a cocktail? That magazine had been half cinders when he found it. Whatever.)

He can't say he's surprised all hell breaks loose, but he's sure surprised to be a spectator instead of a casualty in the blitz. Before the canvas stops flapping behind her, every uniform in the place descends like ants on a sugar cube. Rippers roar, power fists fly, dogs snap.

Benny is forgotten in the chaos. Even though it means there's no meat shields between him and the fight, he's not too sorry about it when he sees her swinging a bat, knocking Legionaries this way and that, shrugging off machetes like she doesn't even feel 'em. She's got some serious power in those broad shoulders.

He's seen guys beaten to death before, but goddamn, he's never seen one _explode_ on impact. She must've corked that baseball bat with something better than cork. C-4, maybe, with a gunpowder chaser. It's not enough to make him queasy, but if he hadn't grown up a Boot Rider, it might be.

 _Check's in the mail, hey_? he'd said when she dangled freedom in front of him, not believing for a second he'd ever get to cash it. _Don't get my hopes up_ , he'd said, not bothering to get that far. No way was she screwball enough to take out a whole Legion camp, even if she was screwball enough to let him go.

But here she is, raining destruction so casual she might as well be picking flowers. With melee weapons yet, like she _wants_ to keep bullets from flying anywhere they shouldn't. Or maybe that's wishful thinking. There's no guarantee she's doing this for _him._ She could be working for somebody, anybody—House, the NCR, a sentient fire ant queen with designs on the Sunset Sarsparilla factory. It might be just for kicks. In the Mojave, who the fuck knows?

He doesn't care so long he's got a shot at getting out of here.

Pussycat knocks Caesar’s head clean off his shoulders. Watching her face spatter with his blood as it goes spinning through space, Benny thinks he's never known a feeling like this. A soaring, triumphant kind of warm thing in his chest, spreading outward like it wants to bust out of him and sing. Is it love? He could believe it. She's all leather and dust and _crazy,_ covered in blood and yeah. Yeah, he could believe he loves her right now, in this moment, more than he's ever loved anything except maybe himself. It's probably the multiple concussions talking, but hell, let 'em talk. They're makin' sense.

It's over real fast after that, 'cause she's got the same sense for angles that Benny does even if she lacks his finesse. Maybe it's ego, but he's got to admire the way she successfully takes them out in the same order he would have. Biggest threat first, Vulpes Inculta. Then the tier below that, Caesar, Lucius. Finally, the less skilled guards and their dogs. With a ranged weapon, he'd have done it a little differently, but hand to hand? She did it right.

When the last Praetorian falls in a heap of leather and guts, she stops to catch her breath at the mouth of the inner tent. She's ankle deep in bodies but it doesn't bother her any. There's a ripper still running somewhere, weak, like its teeth are deep in a slab of meat and it's wearing down the motor. It's real quiet, otherwise, without hounds barking and screams and solid pine cracking bones. Eerie.

Makes him uneasy. In some ways, more uneasy than being under Legion guard. After all, he knew _they_ wanted him dead. Her vote can still swing any direction. Benny and uncertainty don't get along too well.

She swipes the back of her arm across her face to clear some sweat and filth. After, she pulls her armored associate in close enough for kissing and mutters something. Benny gets the feeling that ain't foreign to 'em—kissing—something about the way their bodies angle into each other when they're so close. Practiced. Familiar.

Pussycat's lady friend doesn't look too keen on whatever she says, sending dirty looks his way. They go back and forth for a few tense seconds, but after pinning him with one last stink eye, she gives in. She whistles and clucks her tongue, heading for the exit, ribbons fluttering behind her. With a whine and longing puppy dog eyes at his mistress, the robo-dog tags along after.

In the stillness, he can hear the sound of the canvas flap when her companions leave—damp, like it's soaked with something. Blood, if he had to guess.

Finally, they're alone. Him, her, a dozen cooling corpses in skirts. Chummy. Not how he would have chosen to see her again, but hey, a desperate man takes what he can get. She strolls toward him, really taking her time until she's staring down at him.

“You're a scrapper, baby, they never stood a chance.” A beat. He lets it hang, works hard on sounding nonchalant, like he don't care one way or another if she cuts him loose. “How 'bout me?”

Pussycat wipes brain matter off her bat with the front of her tank, but is silent. Her sharp eyes roam over him, measuring, evaluating. _Hazel_ _eyes_ , his brain observes, choosing when he's tied up defenseless and likely about to die to notice the _least important thing of all fucking time_. Couldn't do that when they were going at it like rad rabbits, and they were face to fuckin' face, oh no, had to wait 'til _right now_.

“Maybe you're next,” she says, when she's done sizing him up and finds him wanting. “Want to say your prayers?”

Benny swallows. Sweat trickles from his hair to his temple, shattering his constructed calm exterior and giving him away. It's stupid to try for cool, anyhow. Like she doesn't know he wants her to set him free? She knows. She just don't care.

“You fink!” It bursts out of him. “Murdering me like this, down on my knees?”

Her brows rise, but she doesn't startle. The way she looks at him instead burns him up. Makes the heat rise under his collar, the blood pound in his ears—and not in a good way. If she weren't holding a weapon and threatening to use it, he'd call it a come-hither look. Salt in the wound is what it is. Lusty notions be damned, he should have shot her in bed.

Strike that. He should have murdered her right the _first_ time. Pulled the trigger and kept on pulling until there was nothing but raw hamburger where her head used to be.

She taps him under the chin with the end of the bat, hard enough to sting, not hard enough to bruise, and tips his head back, forcing him to keep looking her in the eye as she steps closer. Close enough he could unzip her pants with his teeth if he wanted to, which is not the mental image he needs. “I'm sorry, Benny. Does this seem like an _eighteen carat run of bad luck_?”

He can't deny that's fair. The edge of the bat digs into his throat, until she gets a firm enough grip on his hair to hold him still, and tosses it aside. She runs her other hand down the side of his neck, brushing her thumb gently over the spot on his jaw that might be a fracture, or might just be a nasty bruise. He wonders if she plans to whip his head sideways until she snaps his neck with her bare hands. At this point, nothing would surprise him.

“Don't tell me, baby—the game was rigged from the start?” It comes out just barely strained, but enough that she notices. Oh, she notices. Her lips curve, enough to show him she's enjoying this, as her hand trails down over his collarbone. Which is definitely cracked, but she doesn't let him pull away from her touch.

She bends over, flashing a glimpse of what's under her tank. For a second he forgets all about being sore—sore as in holding a grudge _or_ sore as in beaten half senseless—until her hand dips inside his jacket, and he realizes too late what she's up to. He tries to bring his bound hands up to stop her, but Maria's comforting weight is gone from his hidden inner pocket before he can do much more than twitch. Should have figured Pussycat would know where to look, even if the Legion boys didn't.

Ironically, without the extra pound and a half of steel pressing against his ribs, he starts breathing a little easier.

Her thumb flicks over the safety— _off, on—off, on—_ but she keeps the gun pointed at a spot somewhere over his shoulder.

“Could have tried shooting your way out,” she says. “Or did you stick around just for me?”

“Of course, baby. All this was worth it just to see you again.” As if he could have killed more than maybe one or two of them before they shot him down. That ain't what Maria's made for.

Or what Benny's made for, for that matter. But having somebody who _does_ do that kind of fighting bust in and lay waste to the place, that's been a hell of a thing.

He can't quite read what's in her eyes when she flicks the safety off and leaves it there, but whatever she's thinking can't make too much difference. _Safety off_ ain't exactly an ambiguous action.

The tugging at his scalp eases off. She untwists her fingers from his hair and smoothes her hand down the back of his head, skimming lightly over the lump from when he fell against the edge of a table. She grabs the back of his neck instead, forceful enough to keep his attention where she wants it. It doesn't hurt, though. She's firm, not brutal.

“What am I gonna do with you?” she asks, and he looks up at her with his head at that awkward angle, his eyes wide and innocent, his smile crooked in that way that makes the sweet ones blush, his eyebrows raised in that way that makes him look sincere.

“I can think of a few things.”

She doesn't blush, or smile, or dip her head down for a kiss even though he's in the perfect position for it. Instead, she uses Maria to tuck a stray lock of his hair back into place. It's no coincidence that the movement briefly presses the muzzle against his temple, where his skull is thinnest. Where he should have been smart enough to shoot _her_ that night outside Goodsprings, if he really wanted her to stay where he buried her.

He's feeling pathetic enough to be grateful she's poking at the right side of his face, where he's hardly even bruised. Not a whole lot of left-handed power fists lying around, lucky him.

Maria's gone a second later, and the grip on his neck loosens and slips away as she steps around him, out of his line of sight.

“Pussycat?”

She doesn't answer. He hears the click of the safety one more time, but before he can figure she's decided not to blow his brains out after all, he hears her release the magazine. Making sure it's loaded. Wouldn't want to get sloppy. She slaps it back in a second later with a satisfied _hmm_ , and pulls the slide back to chamber a round. He doesn't have to look back at her to know what she's doing. Maria's been his for so long, these sounds are as familiar as his own heartbeat. The safety clicks off for the last time. If that's the last thing he's ever going to hear...well, at least it's an old friend, he tries to tell himself, and at least she'll make it quick.

He feels her hand on his shoulder, fingers digging in, far enough from any breaks or bruises that he doesn't wince, tight enough that his breath comes sharper through his nose when he clamps his lips together. After a moment, her fingers come up into his hair, gentling over the lump on the back of his head again, and she makes a sound. He can't decide if it's sympathetic or sarcastic; could be a bit of both.

“Really did a number on you, didn't they?”

“Oh, yeah.” He injects some humor into his tone, bitter, self deprecating. “A week of rehearsals and two encores. Last beating, I got a standing ovation.”

“Wish I'd seen it.” It sounds like she's smiling around that dreamy sigh; he imagines it's a wistful, faraway thing.

“I bet you do.”

She says nothing to that, but her fingers drag down through his hair to the back of his neck. The gun's not scraping against his scalp, even if the safety's off. Now's as good as anytime to press his luck.

“So...”

“You sure are chatty for a guy with a gun to his head.”

He leans back, nice and slow, until he can feel her thighs pressing against his shoulder blades. He tilts his head way back to look up at her.

“What gun?”

She shoves him upright. Not real gentle this time, and she jams Maria right up against that bump on his melon. He winces.

“Point taken. And _ow,_ by the way.”

For emphasis, she jabs him again. “Don't push your luck, smart guy. I might change my mind about untying you.”

 _Untying…?_ Benny straightens up, turns his head as much as he can in her direction without inviting her to jerk him around by the hair some more. “Call me crazy, Pussycat, but I'm getting mixed signals. Just one or two.” Or ten. “When it comes to untying, I'm a little fuzzy on whether you're pro or anti. Feel like cluing me in?”

Her hand finds his shoulder again. “Not really.”

“Oh, dandy. Just gonna let me swing in the breeze. Thanks for clearing that up.”

“That's the mental image you want to go with?” She sounds amused. He's not sure that's a good sign. “You swinging in the breeze?”

Benny buries his anxiety under another layer of smarm. “Pretty sure you'll clock me for anything more fun.”

“You're not as dumb as you look.”

“If you're tryin' to hurt my feelings, baby, there are better ways.” For a moment he hesitates, weighing whether it's worth it to risk being clever. Hell, she's played with him so far—like a Deathclaw dangling a mole rat by the tail, maybe, but she's played—might as well go for it, right? “For instance, cuttin' me loose? Devastating. I'd never recover.”

“Tempting. You do know how to sweet-talk a girl.”

“Pussycat,” he lets his voice drop, down into that range that rarely sees play outside a bedroom, “I know how to do all _kinds_ of things to a girl.”

“And you'll be happy to show me,” she says, so cloyingly sweet it could melt his teeth, “if _only_ I'll set you free?”

He wishes he could turn to face her. If he works the eyes just right, he knows he could turn her knees to jelly. Maybe she knows it, too; maybe that's why she won't let him look at her. If that's the case, he'll just have to work a little harder.

“There's only so much a man can do with his hands tied, baby.” Benny licks his lips, trying to keep his imagination from scattering in dirty directions; for all that they're talking like it, this isn't foreplay, it's a power struggle. If he gets distracted, he'll lose what edge he's got and it'll be curtains. “I'm creative, but that don't mean much if I can't move my fingers.”

He raises his hands to show her how the ropes are eating into his wrists—just tight enough to be uncomfortable and keep his fingertips tingly, not so much that he'll have permanent damage. He hopes.

He keeps his hands up, even though it aches all down both sides to hold that pose, hoping she'll reach out and cut him free if he makes it easy for her. Instead, she uses the butt of the pistol to push his hands back down.

“No dice, hey?” Not exactly a shock, but that doesn't make the cold knot of fear in his stomach any easier to take.

Her arm drapes over him, so he could almost think she's holding him in a tender embrace when she presses a kiss to his temple, just where Maria touched him before. “No dice.”

“Can't blame a guy for tryin'.”

The pressure on his shoulder increases—she's using him to steady herself as she kneels—and then she presses up against him. He can feel the heat of her flush against his back, but the particulars of her soft curves are lost; his jacket's too thick. Her fingers relax, then drift up under his collar beside his neck. “Confusion” doesn't really sum up the emotion churning in him as her fingertips graze the fabric of his tie, twisting softly—he's tempted to say... _affectionately—_ around the slip of cloth to find the knot at his throat.

“Pussycat,” he lays on the charm to keep from dwelling on how easy it'd be to strangle him like this, “not that I'm eager to correct you, but...you got a funny way of shootin' a guy.”

She slides the Windsor knot up, tightening until he can feel it pressing into his Adam's apple, but only long enough to give him a nice stab of panic in the gut. Barely chokes him at all, though he does gasp on instinct. Pussycat works the knot loose, and removes the tie from around his neck. Then, she works the buttons beneath, the tips of her fingers trailing along his throat, bobbing into the dip between his collar bones, then down farther along to his chest. His muscles jump at the threatened bite of fingernails and he hears an exhale of breath that might be a silent chuckle.

Her hand soothes down the length of his breast bone, folding his shirt open as it moves south, then to the slight softness of a belly that had once been taut from hunger and years of walking an unforgiving desert, but is now the product of inactivity and bourbon. One of her fingers circles his navel, and his body twitches some more under her hand.

Benny's shirt is wide open now, the hot, dry breeze whispering against his bare skin, and her fingers slink back up his chest, their work finished as his buttons are undone. Everywhere the pads of her fingers touch sizzles. His brow furrows over eyes he knows are wide; his mouth turns down. This is not the way this scene is supposed to play.

“Baby—”

Maria at his temple again, then gently, almost lovingly, along the length of his jaw. Down, under the ear— where it _tickles_ because of fucking course, that's what he should be feeling with a gun to his head, _giggly—_ then under the chin, pointing heavenward. Just the right position to blow his brains out the top of his skull. Maybe she's reading from the right script after all.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

He swallows, and it's loud, he can _hear_ how loud, and he gets the distinct impression her silence is _smirking_ at him, and how the fuck that works he don't even know, but he sure as hell don't like it.

Lips brushing the back of his ear startle him, and oh ain't that just what he needs? “Nervous?”

“Depends,” he says, trying for casual and falling short of the mark by about ten feet, “You gonna tell me if I got a reason to be?”

Maria inches back toward his throat, over the lump in it that he can't quite seem to swallow down, then lower. The pistol follows the same path her fingers did, stopping to rest in the dead center of his chest.

“Ciao, Benny.” Her breath is hot, damp, on the shell of his ear. “It's been swell.”

His breathing picks up the pace when he feels her whole arm tense. She squeezes the trigger—

_Click._

His eyes slam shut—a reflex.

_Click._

They snap open. No pain. No explosion of sound.

 _Clickclickclick_.

She empties six imaginary bullets in his chest before she's through—right in the heart, somethin' poetic about that—and he's hyperventilating and his stomach drops out and his heart is pounding and _shit fuck fucking fuck shit—_

The gun ain't loaded. The pieces snap sharply into place. She swapped out the magazine for an empty. Screwing with him, and watching him squirm, and _ciao, Benny, it's been swell_. A series of images flash, him and her, his suite at the Tops, the morning after.

“You were awake.” The words come out thick, syrupy, like they're having trouble making it past his teeth.

“I was awake.” Her hand—the one with Maria in it—snakes into his jacket to tuck the gun back in his pocket where she belongs. Then she presses her palm over his heart and holds him steady as he slumps forward. All the terror's gone out of him, leeched from his bones and replaced by frantic relief. Seems fear was the only thing keeping him upright. Makes sense, given how battered his body is.

 _When_? he wonders. When did she come to? Before he pressed Maria to her head? As he murmured goodbye? Maybe when he tapped her on the chin? Not that it matters, really; she's one hell of an actress no matter what. He didn't suspect. Then again, if he woke up with a loaded gun to his head and knew moving might startle a bullet out of it, he'd develop great fake sleeping skills, too.

“You got a sick sense of humor, baby,” he breathes, willing his heart rate to slow beneath her hand. “You're gonna be the death of me.”

“You'll deserve it.” But she keeps holding him, her palm stroking slowly up and down his chest while he gets his breath back.

“I'd hate to get killed if I _didn't_.” Well, he'd hate getting killed ever, but it's the sentiment that counts.

“Yeah, so would I,” she says pointedly. This time he is close enough to turn and look at her, but he doesn't give her bedroom eyes. She looks too serious for that.

“We even now?” he asks, his voice all low and quiet, but giving her a smile because he can't help charming her a _little_.

“I dunno, Benny. There was something about burying me alive in a shallow grave. Not sure you've made up for that one yet.” If he thought he didn't have any fear left in him, he was wrong. It hits him like a bucket of water. Benny almost stops breathing until her lips curl and she gives him a friendly-seeming squeeze. “Benny, I'm not going to bury you.”

“You might have to, baby, you keep scaring me like that.”

Pussycat takes away the hand that's not busy supporting at least half his weight, and he starts to straighten up on his own, until she pulls him back to lean up against her. He doesn't resist, even when he hears her flick open a switchblade somewhere behind him. She doesn't stick it in his kidney. Instead, she reaches around him to slice the bindings around his wrists.

The rope falls into the dust and he sucks in some air through his teeth. It hurts when the blood gets cut off, it hurts when the blood comes back. Human bodies are fuckin' ridiculous. Should complain to the manufacturer.

The switchblade snaps closed and disappears. A second later, her hands are over his, making him flex his fingers, massaging the blood back where it needs to be. It still hurts, fuck does it hurt, especially the busted fingers, but it's a good kind of hurt that tells him his hands aren't going to rot right off his wrists, and he has the idea she's helping him get the painful part over with a little faster.

“What?” she says blandly when she sees him staring at her, too confused to ask her _why_. “You have to get the circulation going. You're not much use if you can't move your fingers.”

They're so close if he tipped his head a little back and to the side, they'd be cheek to cheek. Her breath is warm on his neck, and he lets his voice get husky. “And…what kind of use are you plannin' on puttin' me to?”

“I'm not.”

That...was not the flirtation he was hoping for. “Oh.”

“This might surprise you, Benny, but...” she leans in close, and whispers right in his ear, “I don't trust you.”

He grins against her. “I'm not really askin' you to trust me.”

“Uh...huh. And what _are_ you asking me to do? I've already rescued you, untied you...”

“There's a big gap between those two things, baby, and it was filled by _psychological torture_.”

“Which you deserved.”

“Which I deserved.” It's only right to admit that much. “I'm a big boy, Pussycat. I can take my medicine. But...”

She squints at him, suspicious. “But…?”

“You know what they say about a spoonful of sugar, baby.” He waggles his eyebrows at her, which are probably the least tired part of him, and _leers_. “Or in my case—”

“Oh my god—”

“Enough Med-X to send me to the moon.” Benny smirks at her. He shouldn't be needling her, not so soon after she held her life in his hands, but somehow he can't help himself. “What'd you think I was gonna say? Somethin' dirty? You want to share with the rest of the class?”

“For fuck's sake, Benny. You're like eighty percent bruise.” She pulls away from him and gravity gets him. Without her support, he sprawls in the dirt. The back of his head hits the ground, maybe a little harder than she meant it to, and he sees fireworks again.

Fuck. Sparks are still chasing each other across his vision when he hears a couple of syringes clatter to the ground beside him. Two stimpaks thump on the middle of his chest right after.

“Was it something I said?”

“Shut up before I decide you owe me for the meds.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She huffs a little, which he figures is all the answer she's planning on giving him. At least she was willing to give him the medicine—and for free, yet? Two stimpaks and two hits of Med-X will go a long way, at least compared to the _nothing_ he's gotten used to.

He tries to inject himself with a stimpak, but he can't get either of his hands to close around it. After a couple of embarrassing tries, he stares up at her, trying to look as pathetic as he feels.

“I don't suppose you'd be willing to take pity on a broken man, would you, Pussycat?”

“Oh for—” She takes a stimpak and _stabs_ it into him. Takes a Med-X syringe and _stabs_ that in, too. He winces each time, but the relief that spreads through him—the actual, _physical_ relief—is worth it.

“Thank you,” he says with probably more sincerity than he's been able to show her all day. “Baby, you--”

“Don't thank me yet.” She holds up a second stimpak so he can see that it's...different than what he's used to. Bigger, with straps and buckles and _why in the fuck would anyone stick that into themselves willingly?_ “These are experimental drugs. They'll heal you up pretty good, but there's a drawback.”

“What...what drawback?”

“Dunno. Haven't tried one yet.” That's all the warning he gets. Benny makes a sound that could shatter glass when she _stabs_ him again.

“What, was the first stimpak to make sure I was in good enough shape to survive the second?”

“Maybe.”

“You're enjoying this!”

“Maybe,” she says again. And that's when the sickness hits.

It's probably worse for taking it on an empty stomach, not that _that_ thought does much to help when his entire body suddenly seems to be trying to turn itself inside out.

“Oh, so that's what it does,” she says, as he curls in on himself and whines like a goddamn infant.

“Nnng,” he groans into the dust—when'd he turn on his side? Which way is up? _Who is he_? His life is divided into two parts: before the monster stimpak and after. He's having a real hard time remembering much from 'before.' “You'll be sorry when I'm dead.”

“Maybe.” Her voice comes down from real far away, and...is he passing out? Either he's passing out, or the stimpak is melting all his bones and he's turning into a puddle of goo.

He barely hears her say, with something that sounds almost like real concern, “Benny?”

Well, she's not screaming in horror, like you might if someone was turning to goo.

Oh, good. He's passing out.


	3. ...just being here with you, and breathing the air you do...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Current Creative Process:_
> 
> 1\. Chase Benny up a tree  
> 2\. Throw rocks at him  
> 3\. ????  
> 4\. Profit

For a long time, there's nothing. Not quite as restful as sleep, but deeper than being drunk. Then there's something, and it's nausea with a nice side of muscle fatigue that goes all the way down into his bones. After that, another long stretch of nothing. It's eventually interrupted by the sole of a boot nudging his nose none too gently.

Benny comes to with a knot of NCR soldiers clustered around him, an equal number of service rifles pointed at his face. He can't even cope with this. He closes his eyes.

“Hang on a second,” one of them says. “I've seen this before. He's got stimpak sickness.”

“So?”

“So, Legion doesn't use stimpaks.”

He looks up at them again and counts eight soldiers, most of them looking at him like he's a bug they want to stomp.

“Jesus, you assholes think I'm Legion?” He starts to laugh, a croaky thing that makes his insides twist up in gnarls. He can't help it. After all this, he has to deal with _them_? It's fuckin' priceless.

About half of them let their gun barrels droop, as it slowly penetrates their thick skulls that the guy curled up in a pathetic ball at their feet, laughing himself sick probably isn't a threat. The other half take aim, because a possible plant in an enemy camp cackling like a chem fiend makes any sensible soldier's trigger finger itchy.

“You think he's for real?” one of them whispers. Another snorts.

“Don't be an idiot.”

“Aren't they supposed to kill themselves to avoid capture?”

“Maybe he's got a bomb.”

A rifle jabs him in the side.

“Strip search him.”

“For fuck's sake!” Benny cackles. He can't stop laughing. He might be hysterical. Side effects, maybe?

“Shut him up already,” one of them snaps, and Benny braces himself for another poke in the ribs, but what he gets is a rifle butt to the face. Well, the tooth that was loose ain't loose anymore. He spits it out—it goes, _bounce, bounce, bounce—_ and the wheezing noises he's making still sound like laughter but they're edging toward something else.

“What was it?!” One of the twitchier ones shrieks, leaping away from where the tooth landed. Another drops his rifle and throws himself on top of it, yelling for the rest to get clear. One of them actually fires off a shot, and it's a good thing he doesn't take the time to aim, because if the next bullet comes any closer, Benny ain't gonna have a head.

Through the ringing in his ears, he can just barely hear some of the yelling. They're yelling at each other, they're yelling at him, it doesn't even fucking matter because one of them decides to solve everybody's problems by picking up a Legion spear and whacking him over the head with it until he's not aware of anything but blistering pain splitting him in half. And then, for a long time, there's nothing.

* * *

 

The next time he comes to, it's through a sweet, thick haze of Med-X that's only starting to wear off, there's a ceiling over his head and nobody's trying to smash his skull in. Niiice.

(And there's a California bear flag on the wall, but that's okay. Everything's okay.)

Somebody leans over him, maybe a doctor, probably a doctor, Benny doesn't really care until he sees what's on the steel tray table beside him, a _big_ goddamn stimpak with straps on it, and if he had any kind of control over his body he'd be out of the bed and across the room in a second.

“You keep that fuckin' thing away from me!” He tries coming up off the cot and finds his arms don't leave his sides. He's tied down? He slams his head back on the inadequate pillow and regrets it because he can feel steel cot-frame through the damn thing. Of course he's fucking tied down. Why wouldn't he be tied down? This is what he does now. This is his life. He gets the everloving crap kicked out of him and he gets tied up. Peachy.

“Like you could afford it.” The guy peels back one of Benny's eyelids and peers in. The probably-doctor doesn't grab for the stimpak like he expects. Instead, he shines a light in the eye he's yanked open. Then he moves to the other eye and gives it the same treatment. “Concussion. Big surprise.”

“ _I_ coulda told you that.” He wonders who this jerk is, where he is now, but he can't keep up the will to fight. As long as he's not getting jabbed with that stimpak, who cares?

The doc starts prodding around what feels like a cut in his forehead, and some swelling on his cheekbone. His touch is too firm to feel anything but painful, but even if he let up a little it might not make much difference. There's definitely some deep bruising he's mashing under his fingertips. “Any idea how many times they hit you, kid?”

“Who?" He winces, and it's the kind of wince that scrunches up the whole half of his face that can still move. "Legion, or you NCR chuckleheads?”

“The chuckleheads.”

“Gee,” he says, real thoughtful and twice as sarcastic, “I must've lost count, being  _knocked out_ and all.”

“Rough guess?” The doctor sounds kinda irritated, but Benny's not quite sure if it's at him or if it's his natural disposition.

“Let me think." Benny turns his last bout of consciousness over in his memory. "'Strip search him.' 'For fuck's sake.' 'Shut him up already.' CLUNK. The talking part gets sort of hazy, then CLUNK, CLUNK, CLUNK.”

“I'll just call it six.” The poking fingers stop long enough for the doctor to make a note on his chart.

“Nice round number.” Benny lies back on the cot, careful not to knock his head again, and tugs at his restraints. “You wanna do something about these charm bracelets?”

“But you look so pretty in 'em." The doc's grin is shit-eating. "Really brings out your eyes.”

Benny stares at him, expression flat. It ain't enough he's gotta live with the smartass he sees in the mirror every morning, now everybody else wants to horn in on his action? “Baby, your bedside manner really instills confidence in a guy. You sure you're a doctor and not three radscorpions in a lab coat?”

“Don't be ridiculous.” The doc says, seriously, tucking his pen in his pocket. “Three radscorpions wouldn't fit in a lab coat.”

“And an aspiring comedian too!” Benny's voice cuts. “Take my advice: don't sing for your supper. You'd starve.”

The doc chuckles, but it doesn't sound too kind. “Take a load off and relax, kid. Lieutenant Boyd will be along to take you into custody any minute now.”

Custody? Great. “He the kind of guy who'll hit me some more?”

“The NCR has laws regulating the treatment of prisoners—no, don't look at me like that. You got hit over the head _before_ you were taken in, by a bunch of raw recruits without a handler. Boyd's an officer, with a few years of service and commendations on record, so no, _she_ isn't going to hit you some more.”

Benny's brain picks out just one word in that hollow reassurance that's actually reassuring. _She_ , huh? He can deal with _she_.

* * *

 

He can't deal with she.

“Let's try this again.” Boyd lights up what must be her eighth cigarette in the past half hour, and he's pretty sure she's just doing it to drive home the fact he can't have one. “What's your rank?”

“I told you.” And told her, and told her, and _told her_. “I'm not Legion.”

“According to NCR intel, the only people allowed into Caesar's camp are Legionaries, slaves and one trader who doesn't fit your description.” She blows the smoke right in his face and it makes his head swim. “So if you really expect me to believe you're not Legion, you'd better have a compelling answer for why you weren't in a slave collar. Do you?”

“I don't know! I guess they never got around to it.” He leans forward on his chair. The smile ain't workin', the eyes ain't workin', leering at her ain't workin'. Maybe desperation will do the trick.

“Listen, baby, do I sound like one of those Legion creeps? Do I look like 'em?” He tugs on his jacket--he's so glad to have back after being without it on that infirmary cot. They took Maria, but at least they let him have his duds—probably 'cause they only got a couple of hospital gowns to go around. “Those jerks _wish_ they looked half this good.”

“Guess you haven't looked in a mirror lately.” She taps her fingers to her cheek, the same spot he knows his face is all busted up. He can feel it, even if he can't see it, all swollen and out of shape.

“All right,” he snaps, gesturing to the bloated side of his face, “so I look like a mole rat carcass that's been out in the sun too long. You gotta rub it in? I'm still ten times too good for that corny outfit.”

“Uh-huh.” Her expression doesn't change as she takes another drag of her cigarette, really works at it until there's nothing left but filter and ash. She flicks it away before it can burn her fingertips, and his eyes can't help following its path down to the concrete. He regrets every one he ever threw away half-finished. “All right, fancy pants. You're not Legion? Who are you?”

“I—“ _run_ _the Chairmen_ , he wants to say, but the rest of the words die a quick death on his lips. A sinking feeling hits him low in the chest, tight up under his still healing ribs like it's pressing up into his lungs. Oh. He's...probably not in charge of anything anymore, not if even a fraction of the facts about him and Fortification Hill and the chip have gotten back to the Strip. “I used to be head of the Chairmen.” Then he tacks on, quietly, “I think.”

“You _think_.”

He makes a little see-saw motion with his hand. “I'm not a hundred percent on whether I'm out or not. Let's call it used to be.”

“Okay. Head of the Chairmen.” Boyd blinks, slow and lazy, and there's not a damn thing in her face that doesn't scream _yeah, right_. “But you're not anymore.”

“Yeah.”

“Anyone who can vouch for this?”

Ah, shit. Even if they got in touch with anyone on the Strip, even if they got hold of _Swank_ , odds are good nobody would stand up for him now. The Chairmen might be true blue, but they won't look kindly on him makin' a play for Vegas without keeping them in the loop. And the other families...they wouldn't spit on him if he was on fire. Always too ambitious for 'em, too scheming _—_ like that's a bad thing. And now, in retrospect, goddamn it, it is.

He hangs his head, but that makes it throb, so he looks back up at her, sheepish. “Let's just say my fall from grace hasn't been real graceful.”

“See, now, that much I could believe.” She lights up another cigarette and just lets it dangle in her mouth, smoke curling up into her face.

Benny licks his lips, eyes glued to her cigarette, and stares at the spirals of gray she's blowing out, jealous. “You in auditions to be a chimney?”

“Might be.” That's all the attention she gives to that crack before she's right back down to business. “There's absolutely nobody who could verify your identity?”

“Nobody who _would_ , let's say.” Except—Benny's eyes lift to Boyd's when the idea hits him. It's a long shot, but hell, why not? She's got a reputation with just about everybody—a decent one from what he's heard. “You know that Courier? You must know her. Got a list of good deeds as long as my arm. You NCR cats go in real big for that scene.”

A slow smile spreads on her face; it's a good smile, makes him think he's got a shot at not rotting in a prison somewhere. “The Courier will vouch for you?”

“Baby, please.” Benny leans back in the chair, acting a whole lot more confident about it than he actually is, because he's got to really _sell it_. “We're bosom buddies.” Emphasis on the bosom, he thinks, with a loose mental picture that's got no place in the middle of an interrogation. “Get on like a house on fire.” Maybe a little _too much_ like a house on fire.

“Well, then. If that's the case, I'll just have someone get a message to her and we can get this whole mess straightened out,” she says. Benny smirks as much as he can and breathes an internal sigh of relief. “But, before I do that, I've got to know a thing or two. You know, to make sure my superiors don't think I'm wasting resources.”

“Anything you say, gorgeous,” he replies, stretching and folding his arms behind his head so they can rest against the wall behind him. It hurts some, stretching muscles that don't want to get stretched, but it's worth it to look relaxed. The illusion is important. “Just call me Mr. Helpful.”

Boyd crosses her arms over her chest and raises her brows at him. “What's her name?”

His house of cards comes tumbling down in three words. Benny's face falls.

“You _do_ know her name?” She's still smiling, and he realizes it was never a good smile. It was nothing but humoring him, giving him enough rope to hang himself. “You being on such good terms and all, you must know something like that.”

Benny scrambles to paste his smirk back on. Maybe he can still pull his fat out of the fire. Maybe. “We're on...closer terms than a first name basis, baby, if you get my drift.”

Unconvinced, one of her eyebrows creeps higher than the other. “Implying you've fucked?”

“So crude.” Benny _tsks_ , and gives a little shake of his head which only makes it hurt more. Concussions are a pain in the ass. He won't be lining up to get any more of 'em in the future. “But yeah, if you want to put it in so many words, those are the ones you could do it with.”

“Right.” Boyd's head bobs a couple of time, her lips pressed together. “So, let me see if I've got this all straight.”

She starts ticking off on her fingers. “You want me to believe that, first, you're not Legion, even though you were found in a secure Legion camp without a slave collar and ejected something from your mouth at NCR soldiers—”

“It was a tooth. Those brain donors knocked it out!”

“The tests haven't come back yet on that—and _don't_ interrupt me.” She taps her middle finger, continuing her countdown. “Second, you want me to believe you used to be head of one of the Three Families, but just aren't anymore, and not one single solitary soul in New Vegas would testify to it.”

“But I told you—“

She pins him with a no-nonsense look that wouldn't have been out of place on his mother's face when he was still a snot nosed kid. “What'd I say?”

Benny clams up.

“Third, you say you're best pals with a certain folk hero of the wasteland, even though you don't know her name.” The last finger on her hand pops up. “And finally, that you've been intimate with her, and showed her such a good time that she'll vouch for you. Is that about the size and shape of it?”

“It's the truth.”

“It's lighting up the tilt sign, is what it's doing. I'll give you credit, it's a pretty good story, but that's all it is.” She leans down enough to look him straight in the face, all mock concern. “Listen, why don't you make this easy on yourself and just admit you're Legion?”

“Is there gum in your ears or something? Because, you kooky broad, I'm _not._ ”

She stares at him for a long moment, studying his battered face, searching for signs of something. He doesn't know what she's looking for, but he does know all she'll find is stubborn. Boyd sighs and straightens up again. “You want to do this the hard way? Fine. It's no skin off my nose. But it might be some off yours.”

Before he can suss out whether she means more fun with torture or forced ghoulification—can the NCR even do that? Would they?— Benny watches her cross to the big pane of bullet proof glass to knock on it with a couple of knuckles. The heavy door swings open a minute later with the sound of locks and gears clicking into place, and a couple of bland samefaced NCR guards come in to drag him off his chair.

“Careful with the merchandise, boys.” She says, but it's half-hearted, like she wouldn't mind if they snapped off one of his arms and beat him with it. “Put our... _friend_ here in a cell. Make him comfortable.”

“More NCR hospitality?” Benny chances, unable to keep it from busting out. “ _Great._ We gonna do this whole song and dance again in a few hours? I'd like to know up front if I'll have to repeat myself until it gets through that brick you call a head.”

“Don't worry, _baby_ ,” she says, laying on a Chairman accent so pitch perfect he'd be tempted to offer her a position in the organization under different circumstances. “You and I are done for now. I'll be calling in another interrogator.”

He doesn't like the nasty smile she gives him, like she's just handed him a gift wrapped box full of spring-loaded Brahmin dung and can't wait to see it _splap_ into his face when he opens it.

“If you won't talk to me...well, there's not much _I_ can do to make you.” Boyd steps in close to stare him down with the hardest eyes he's ever seen on somebody who wasn't tribal. Good Cop has left the building. Menacing Cop is on the case. “But I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

Benny's not exactly sure what to make of that, and he kinda wants to make a sharp remark about pulling a rabbit out of a hat, but the almost-tribal look says that won't lead to anything good. When she's through _looming_ at him, she gives him a jaunty little wave and the guards march him out of the room.

At first, he figures they'll take him back to the clinic or medbay or whatever it's called here, but they veer off in a different direction. The room they wind up in is just a few steps from the interrogation chamber, and only contains a couple of dank cells—one of them occupied. By a guy in Legion armor. Centurion? Praetorian? He still ain't sure which is which, but rank don't matter too much. They all punch about the same.

_Shit._


	4. ...now I look at heaven, when I look into your eyes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *continues pelting Benny with rocks*

When he was a kid—he's not too sure how old exactly 'cause nomads ain't great at keepin' track; older than five, younger than eight—Benny saw his first moving picture. It was black and white, on an old projector he found while scavving in a school house with his ma, and it burned itself into his memory like a brand. Half the reel was missing, and the sound cut in and out, but it was still magic to a grubby wasteland kid who'd never seen anything like it.

In the picture, a springy piece of chalk drew a field with lines and borders on a blackboard, then filled it with a bunch of Xs and Os. They swarmed each other 'til they transformed into a bunch of muscleheads in armor and helmets, fighting over something like an egg with two pointy ends.

(He would later learn this was a “cartoon” about somethin' called “football,” which was like pre-war pit fighting. The chalk lines was how they figured their strategies. It was funny, his ma explained, because Xs and Os also meant hugs and kisses.)

That's what he sees now, in his head, echoes of a formative experience that pops up sometimes when he ain't expecting it. Lines lay themselves down on a field of black, sketching out the shape of the room. The cells, their doors, the door to the outside right behind him. The guards, two Xs, the Legion jerk another one in the corner, and he's a lonely little O in the middle of it all.

A lot of calculation happens right then on that blackboard in his head, all at once, stepping all over itself. The wink of metal Legion armor in the corner sparked a flash of panic in his brain and it's jumbling him up, but under all his layers of soft city boy there are still tribal bones. Instincts whisper under the fear. Muscles tense, preparing for movements familiar as his own reflection.

Been awhile since he's had to really fight anybody hand to hand. The shape he was in a couple of weeks ago, even with the years of Vegas on him, he maybe could have handled one guy. Might have come away from it worse for wear, 'cause Legion's real big on stayin' fit, but he'd have given as good as he got. Now, he ain't so sure. Still trembly from the monster stimpak, off balance from the concussion, and everything he's been through the last week and a half is gonna slow him down. They promised him a hot meal if he cooperated, but so far all he's gotten is a glass of water. If he's being real charitable to himself, he can say that'll keep him sharp.

Yeah, no it won't.

Okay. Think. _Get your head out of your ass and think._ He shakes off the panic like a wet dog shaking off water. Angles. Benny's a pro at angles. He's already got 'em all scribbled down in his head, he just has to get it together enough to make sense of them, god damn it.

Making a break for the door is out of the question. The two guards—NCR calls them MPs, which is short for...Macho Posturing? Mutant Patrol? Whatever it is, they've got him by the arms, and it ain't even worth trying to break free because if he does run, they'll just shoot him in the back. Even if they're slow on the uptake and fumble their guns or shoot themselves in the feet, the place is crawling with NCR. Benny won't make it off base without a new set of bullet holes, and he doesn't really need the extra ventilation.

So. He's not getting out of here. All right. Damage control. Damage control comes first and foremost. He can handle that. Right? Right. Yeah. Keep his head down, don't get smart, don't piss off the Legion muscle. He can...maybe do that.

No he can't. _Oh god he's going to die._

 _N_ _o._ No, he's not. He's fine. They won't put him _in_ with that gorilla. There are three cells, and there's no reason to put them in one together.

Except—the cell in the middle has a busted lock, he can see the way the door bows out like someone took a hammer to it. And the one on the other end is up against a wall that's crumbling away, with a hole in it that a grown man probably couldn't fit through, but it might be worth trying. And if he can see it, they can see it. So that leaves…

His feet stop moving, so they just drag him the rest of the way. All the fight trickles right out of him, 'cause if Legion are lousy captors when they're content, they're probably even worse roommates when they're _cranky_.

So, this is it. This is the end. Not how he wanted to go out, but he's been cheating death a lot lately—Caesar's camp, Pussycat and her little jokes at his expense, a few good whacks with the business end of a rifle—and hustlers, even real talented ones like him, eventually get caught. His expiration date's at least a couple weeks past due.

The MPs force him right up to the occupied cell's door, and he's got time to think about how it's been an okay life. Not the best, not everything he wanted, but a lot better than most tribals ever get. And at least he got one last great tumble before all the torture. That should keep his ghost company for that long lonely eternity.

The cell door whines open. They shove him inside.

“What is this?” the Legion brute asks, like they've just tossed in a load of brahmin dung, and Benny rallies a little, because if there's one thing that can't beat him, it's words.

“Just temporary,” says one MP. “Try to get along.” The door slams shut.

The Legionary doesn't speak, and he makes no move to get up off the single cot. He just stares, which is better than coming at him with fists raised.

“Hey, how ya doin'?” Benny says inanely.

Nothing. Okay, not nothing, but glassy eyed hatred ain't exactly a conversation.

Well. Benny leans up against the bars, trying to look casual, like he's not sticking close to the door so the guards will get to him faster if they hear him start screaming. Probably better not to make small talk anyway. What were they gonna do, anyhow, swap recipes? Mmm, mmm, Legion Meatloaf Surprise? Yeah, right. This guy probably likes his meat raw and dripping.

Is it too late to call the guards back and demand a chance to confess? Then they'll have to take him back out. He can confess to _something_. He'll make something up. But—no, _no, stupid—_ if he starts yelling that he's a traitor to Caesar, he'll have his head bashed in before they can get to him. Is there something else he can confess to? Something they'll believe?

“You stink of fear,” the Legionary says, smugly. “Like all profligate scum.”

“And _you—_ “ Benny snaps his mouth shut before something escapes that'll get his face punched out the back of his skull. He gives the Legionary a tight-lipped smile, still chewing on the biting remark that wants to bust out. “You are just the man I've been waiting to see, my friend.”

Why the fuck did he say that? Benny kicks himself a little, mentally. Instead of speeding headlong into one kind of danger, his mouth's run away with him into a completely _different_ one. Now he's got to improvise something clever. Goodie.

The Legionary's eyes briefly flash, and his smirk gets frosty, but it's such a slight change that somebody less observant would miss it. Benny swallows the lump crawling up into his throat and props his mouth up into something that looks smug.

“Really? Then your eagerness for my company manifests in strangely...cowardly ways, _friend_.” He sits back on the cot, hands on his thighs, and examines Benny from shoes to hair. “Dragging feet and wide, fearful eyes and _flop sweat._ ”

“You think they'd let me in here if they thought I wanted to be here?” Benny gestures at the cell. Then he hesitates. _Flop sweat?_ How does this Legion goon know that term? It's one of the things the Chairmen picked up from House's holotapes. He's never heard it anywhere else. But he can't let the pause go on too long, so he says, “You're a hard man to find, buddy-boy.”

“I'm in prison.”

“Figure of speech!” He resists the urge to dab at his sweaty forehead. _Flop sweat_ , he thinks again. That's an actor thing. Does the Legion recruit from the theater? Can he _use_ that? He's almost starting to think this guy looks familiar. But that can't be right. He's seen every act that's passed through Vegas in the last seven years, he knows every entertainer in town. And it ain't like anybody makes movies anymo—

His brain stutters and runs out of gas before it can finish the thought. Oh. Benny realizes. _Oh ho ho ho._ The anemic smirk on his face perks up, and a little glowing ball of glee settles in his chest. To think, just a moment ago he was wondering if he could use the actor angle. Oh, _brother_ can he use the actor angle.

“Baby,” Benny pours on the charm by the bucketful, “did you really think the Double G could go on without you?”

The guy doesn't get it for a second. Benny lets his smile widen, and waits. He sees the exact moment when it _clicks_ in what's-his-name's brain. The mask of sneering superiority slips a little and exposes alarm. He's got him off-balance.

“You...” His voice comes out a little hoarse, and he pauses, lets his eyes narrow and his head tilt back so he can look down his nose at Benny. “You come from New Reno?” he asks coolly. But it's a front. The guy might know some lingo, but he is _so_ not an actor.

Benny puts his hands in his pockets, crosses one ankle in front of the other as he leans against the bars. This casual slouch isn't manufactured like the last one; this smartass grin isn't dying a slow death from malnutrition. He's got this in the bag.

“I come from all over,” Benny says with an easy bounce of one shoulder. “But sure, pally, I might have a message from New Reno, yeah. For a very _specific_ party.”

The Legionary says nothing, but his whole body tenses.

“Maybe you've heard of him.” Benny wracks his brain for any relevant information, rattling bits and pieces of memory until something useful shakes loose. “A real movie star, this guy. Fella with an outstanding... _talent_. Did a couple pictures with Christie Chipps? Not ringin' any bells? It's all right. I can keep going. This guy was known for doing a little trick with mutfruit that'd really—”

“Enough!” He moves so fast Benny barely has time to register what's happened. But he definitely feels it when he gets grabbed by the jacket and _slammed_ up against the bars. It could have really hurt, but his new pal seems to be holding back. It's enough of an advantage that Benny gets cocky.

“So you _are_ Miles Long?” _Porn star_ , he doesn't add, because he doesn't want to get his head shoved between the bars until his eyeballs pop out.

“Do _not_ use that name.”

“Nothin' to be ashamed of, baby, but if that's the way you feel about it, your secret's safe with me.” Benny puts his hands over _Miles's_ to pry them loose from his lapels. He doesn't quite manage—which shouldn't be surprising since the guy's still a Legionary, and he's still a mess of bruises—so he lets them drop. “Like I said, I'm just here to deliver a message.”

“And what is this message?”

This is the part any decent con hinges on: the hook. What sounds good? What sounds _tempting_? Gotta be something that puts him in a position of power—an angle that'll make the mark rethink any base impulses of rearranging his face—but it also has to make this ugly mug feel like he's in charge. That he holds all the cards and he'll be doin' _Benny_ a favor by playing right into his hands.

“The studio wants you back, baby. _Needs_ you back.”

“I find that highly unlikely.” The fingers tighten around Benny's lapels. He can't tell if it's anger or just nerves.

Okay, what does he know about Miles Long? Besides the honestly impressive length of his dick? He did a lot of movies back in the day, but Benny's only seen a couple of them. He stopped making them...eight, maybe nine years ago. Before the Legion was a presence in the Mojave. So he didn't run away from fame and fortune for their sake. Something must have gone sour.

“Listen, Mi—” He gives the guy a smile like they're sharing a secret, almost throws a wink on top of it but decides that might be going too far. “ _Pal_. I know tempers were high at the time. Things were said. Can you blame 'em for being a little steamed? But that's all in the past.”

“In the past?” He's starting to develop an accent, or his natural one's growing back. If he starts woodenly delivering lines about coming to fix a water purifier, it'll be just like the movies. “After everything that—no. You're lying.”

“Come on, baby, think. If I'm lyin',” Benny casts his eyes around the cell, then drags them back to his face, “I went to an awful lot of trouble just to tell you a little fib, don't you think?”

“They want me back, _even though I joined the Legion_?”

Benny's shoulders rise and fall, though it ain't easy with that death grip on his coat. “So you had a little identity crisis and ran off to join the Roman circus. So what? Do you have any idea what kind of box office draw you'd be in that get-up? _Think_ of the possibilities, my friend.”

Under all the skepticism, there's some serious consideration going on. “What's the offer?”

“Double.” He has no idea what he's doubling or how much that comes out to, but he figures he can't go wrong offering _more_.

Or maybe he can. Miles doesn't look intrigued, just...confused. He dubiously repeats, “Double.”

“Triple.” Benny tries to look like he just blew a big secret. “I wasn't really supposed to lead with that, but...”

“Triple. I see.” The Reno accent is slipping away. That can't be good. “Tell me again who you work for. Friend.”

“The Golden Globes, I toldja.” Frantically, he sifts through his memories of every porno poster he's ever seen until his brain hangs on the names at the bottom of one. “Don't _tell_ me you've forgotten your dear old producers, the Coruscant Brothers?”

“Ah, yes, my dear old producers.” A slow smile, a nasty one, spreads on his face. “Though, last I heard, they were still the _Corsican Brothers_.”

“Ain't—“ Oh, shit. “—ain't that what I said?”

Still holding his lapels, the Legionary—his new buddy Miles is _long_ gone—peels Benny's jacket off his shoulders and down his arms, stopping at the elbow so he's good and pinned. Then he takes a swing at his face, fist connecting with his jaw.

“No.” He says, grabbing him by the hair while he's still reeling from the blow and then smashing his face into the bars. “It isn't.”

There's a hot spike of pain and an audible _crack_ under his chin when his face says “how-do” to solid iron. That...is a broken jaw. That is definitely, _definitely_ a broken jaw.

He gets one arm free of his jacket—he has to fight back—but when he swings it backward, his elbow hits leather and the Legionary doesn't even grunt. Why the _fuck_ did they leave their prisoner in full armor, anyway?

He's still got Benny by the hair, and Benny knows what's coming, but he can't stop it. His face slams into the bars again. _Crack—_ there goes his nose. At least it's loud. Someone ought to come running soon, unless that ringing sound is just in his head.

Everything swings around as the guy jerks him back so he can introduce his face to the bars again. Benny flails wildly—he hears the heavy _flap_ of his jacket flying across the cell—and the shift in balance makes the Legionary lose his grip. Thank _Christ_ his hair's so slick with Brylcreem and _flop sweat_. He hits the floor and scrambles backward, but not fast enough to get away.

The Legionary comes down on top of him, pinning him at the waist. A fist like a cement block wallops him in the eye, just once before he can get his arms up over his head. He remembers how to block, at least, protecting all the most important things—brain, eyes, throat. The Legionary keeps going for the head, but if Benny can hold out now, he'll just have some bruises up and down his arms, instead of another concussion.

He tries to tell the guy off—even at a time like this, he's all mouth—but it all just sort of comes out as a wordless moan.

“Oh, shit!” The words don't come from Benny, but he can't disagree with the sentiment. Metal shrieks as the door swings open. Benny tries to lower his arms to see what's going on, and gets a punch in his _other_ eye for his trouble. He's quick to cover his face again.

The other man's weight lifts off him, and Benny almost sobs with relief, but then a boot catches him in the ribs, once—twice— _three_ fucking times before they drag him far enough away that he can't kick anymore.

An arm slides under his shoulders, and someone urges him, “Get up, get up _right now_ before he _kills_ you.” Benny tries, he really does, but he's disoriented and he's got blood in his eyes. He only makes it to his feet because the MP who's got him does most of the work, and he knows if he's left to his own devices he'll probably walk himself facefirst into the bars.

“He—” Oh, _shit_ it hurts to try to talk, but he _really_ wants to insist that _He started it!_ Not that they'll even care.

The MP drags him out of the cell at a brisk enough pace that Benny stumbles over his own feet and drops to one knee. But they're on the other side of the bars by then, and the MP actually stops to help him instead of just shoving him forward.

“What the hell did you _say_ to him?”

Benny just shrugs. He glances back to see two soldiers holding Legion-Long with his back pressed up against the bars, while a third covers him from a distance with her service rifle. He feels a little better, that it takes three of them to hold him back.

Not much better, though. The MP puts him back in the interrogation room, and he doesn't know exactly what that means but he also doesn't much care. He doesn't even make it to the room's single chair, just leans against the first wall he comes to, and slowly slides to the floor without ever actually intending to sit.

The MP eyes him, wary, after he _plops_ to the ground, but doesn't seem too interested in forcing him to move. He might even look sympathetic—it's hard to tell through eyes starting to swell up already. “Do me a favor and don't start any fights with the chair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not initially set out to make Silus an ex-porn star. It just kind of happened. What started as a Fallout 2 reference got out of hand so I guess this is his backstory now. _Whoops_.
> 
> The football cartoon Benny remembers does not exist, but imagine it as being an alternate universe blend of _Sports Chumpions_ (Merrie Melodies, 1941) and _How to Play Football_ (Disney, 1944.)


	5. ...this is paradise, loving the way we do...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. *ties Benny to train tracks* I don't want you to get the wrong idea. *gets giant boulder rolling downhill* I'm not some kind of _sadist_. *lays down dozens of mousetraps* I just think jerks *launches catapult full of pies* need to _earn_ their happy endings. *releases stampede of buffalo* Preferably through slapstick.
> 
> Am I _so_ wrong? *drops piano*

There's somebody on the other side of the glass. Benny can't see who it is. One eye is swollen completely shut, and the other he can get open about halfway, but it hurts like hell to do it. He can tell there are two of them, one wearing something the color of an NCR uniform, one in something else. It's not Legion armor, and it's not a Chairman's suit and tie, so he lets his eye close and rests his head against the wall behind him. Whatever screwy thing is about to happen to him next, he'll find out about it when he finds out.

He hears them talking. He can't make out their exact words, but he can hear the tone of their conversation. Sounds like a couple of broads. That's nice. The rise and fall of their voices reminds him of the gentle ebb and flow of an ocean surf he heard in a movie once. What was it about? He can't really remember a plot. There was some babe who filled out her swimsuits like she wanted to be outside 'em, but that's about all that comes to mind.

And boy, does it come to mind. For a while he drifts, thinking about ample hips and his other favorite curvy parts of a dame straining against too-thin fabric that ain't up to the job of hiding 'em. It ain't as good as proper pain killer, but it's enough to take the edge off. Gives him something to focus on besides the molten metal pain in his jaw and the way his face is swelling, skin fixin' to split.

In Caesar's tent, between beatings—hell, sometimes during 'em—he did this a lot. Floated off on clouds made of dirty thoughts because they were softer than reality. Sometimes thoughts that weren't so dirty, even. But tame or wild, they all featured lush curves and warm arms and a decent mattress. Usually a very specific set of lush curves and warm arms and a decent mattress: the ones he left behind at the Tops the morning before everything went straight to hell.

There's a word for that kind of thing, ain't there? Diss...something. Definitely starts with a 'D' sound. He can't remember the particulars. Doesn't matter, anyhow. Whatever it's called, it's a good way to take his mind off his troubles. Maybe he ain't as bad off as he was in the Legion camp, technically, but he still feels pretty lousy. Anyway, what else is there to do? He's in bad enough shape his options are narrowed down to fantasize or feel sorry for himself.

So, instead of whining to himself about how much he'd rather be elsewhere, he spends some time turning over thoughts of the night before he left Vegas. They're fresh and easy to get to and some of his favorites, after all.

The way Pussycat pressed up against him, bold as brass, with the obvious bulge of a weapon under her clothes. Daring him to say somethin' about it as he dragged her into his body—one hand around her hip, the other gripped tight in her hair. The way she kissed him, not-quite-tender, but not stiff with the hatred he expected when he still thought it was all a ploy. How that _un-fuckin'-did_ him, because a dangerous creature with every reason to want to kill him let him kiss her instead. That hazardous edge appealed to the dormant tribal under all those layers of Vegas.

And the sound of her buttons popping, scattering across the room as he took her shirt in his hands and ripped it open because he couldn't get to her skin fast enough. The sweat-salt taste of her when he pressed his mouth to her neck, then dragged it down to her shoulders...

Benny snaps awake with renewed pain in his jaw. He's slumped his face against the wall. Oh. Shit, he passed out. He tries to open his eyes real wide and finds the one that was still responsive before is a lot less so now. It barely cracks. The other, which at least _tried_ to comply with him before, won't budge at all.

He'd groan, just to hear somebody make pitying sounds over him, but the idea of moving his jaw to let sound escape hurts. God damn, he's pathetic. He lets his eye drift shut. At least nobody he _knows_ will see him like this. The damage to what must be left of his reputation would be irreparable.

His eyes are still closed when the door opens. There's two sets of footfalls. Benny can guess who they belong to—the voyeuristic broads with the hypnotic voices that lulled him to sleep.

“Damn,” one of them whispers.

“Yeah, he picked a fight with See-loos.” That one's Boyd, but what's a see-loos? Oh, must be the name good old Miles is going by. Well, that's unfair. He didn't _pick_ a fight, it came to him. “Hey. Legion,” she says sharply. “Still alive?”

With considerable effort, he forces his good eye open. Takes a second for it to focus, but when it does, he's so surprised by what he sees his stupid mouth forgets all about inconsequential things like, oh, say, _a broken jaw_ and tries to make words anyhow.

All he gets for his trouble is an unintelligible “ _puh”_ sound and a whole lot of regret, handily gift wrapped in face splitting _agony_. Even so, he's glad to see what made him momentarily lose all common sense.

Boyd is crouched in front of him, but standing a step behind with her arms folded over her chest, is Pussycat. She's swapped out her tank and cargo pants for something with more coverage and metal spikey bits, and she's got a few new bruises in places she didn't last he saw her, but she's still the most beautiful thing he's ever fuckin' seen. She's here to _save_ him.

“Guess that whimper means 'yes',” she says, looking a lot more sympathetic than she should if she thinks he's Legion.

Boyd glances over her shoulder. “So, you know him?”

He tries to sit up straighter, tries to make his lips turn up because _thank fuckin' god she's here to save him_ , and he can rub Boyd's face in it, but it's too much. All he manages is a very weak, lopsided smile. He must look like that cartoon sailor with the corncob pipe. What's his name? Right. Frosty the Snowman.

Pussycat looks him over. “Doesn't look familiar.

Boyd turns back to him with the kind of self-satisfied smirk he _wanted_ to give her and tilts her head toward Pussycat's voice. “You're _sure_ you don't know him?”

“It's hard to tell for sure with all the bruising, but...”

She looks at him again, _really looks_ , and...shit, he can see it in her eyes. She ain't just fuckin' with him. She really doesn't recognize him. Of course. It ain't fair, but of course. His face is completely busted up, and his hair's in disarray, and his jacket's gone, and he _can't talk_. Every identifying marker that makes him unique in this crapsack world is gone. Why the fuck _would_ she?

“I don't think so,” she says with a subtle shake of her head, sealing his miserable fate.

Boyd smiles at him calmly and stands up. “Glad we cleared that up. I'll leave you to it.”

After, she squeezes Pussycat's shoulder, friendly, like they've done this before and heads for the door.

“There a reason nobody's stimpaked him since he got in a fight?” Pussycat throws over her shoulder as the interrogation room door opens.

“Doc says we can't afford to waste supplies on Legion if they're going to keep kicking the crap out of each other. Besides, if the patient doesn't consent to treatment, his hands are tied. Legion doesn't consent,” Boyd replies, quite reasonably as she steps out. Like they even _offered_. “Don't be too rough on him. I'd like to have more than a red stain to send to the correctional facility when transport comes.”

The door closes. He's alone with his brain's new favorite pin-up girl. Great. This ain't exactly how he's been picturing it, though.

She crouches down in front of him, looking kinda puzzled.

“Now how the fuck am I supposed to interrogate you, Bashful?”

Well, nobody's ever called him that before. It's almost funny, but it hurts too much to even _think_ about laughing. He tries to look up at her like he did when she pushed him back on the bed, before she leaned over and surprised the hell out of him by yanking his belt out of its loops like it was a fuckin' bullwhip. She has to remember that, she _has_ to. And maybe if he could get his eyes open he'd actually jog her memory, but he can't, and she's barely looking anyway. She's more focused on his bruises.

“Slammed you into the bars, huh?” she murmurs sympathetically, tracing her fingers in a line across his jaw without quite touching him. “Tough break.”

Ha. A pun. He manages a sort of grunt in acknowledgment, and she grins.

“Look at that, we're communicating. I'm going to need more from you than that, though. This would go a lot easier if you'd take a stimpak.”

Okay. Maybe if he's _real careful_ , he can get some words out without actually moving anything.

“Nnnnnugh.” _Fuck_.

“No stimpak? Yeah, I figured.” She takes his hand, all business now, and positions his fingers over her palm. “One tap for yes, two for no, got it? And the more you cooperate, the sooner we can go our separate ways.”

Not the most sophisticated method of communication, but it beats grunting. He taps once for _yes_. Then, after a moment, _no_. He gets it, sure, but he doesn't want her to ditch him again. Not with the kind of hospitality around here.

“No, you're not going to cooperate?” She lets out a huff of frustration, and he hastily taps _no_ again. No as in, _No, that's not what I meant._ Going by the look on her face, she takes it as, _No, I won't cooperate._

He has to think this through. There's gotta be _some_ way he can salvage this. He frantically taps _yes_ , then when her frown deepens _,_ he takes his hand away, waving it back and forth at her, trying to get across, _no, wait, let me start over_.

That was the wrong thing to do. She assumes the worst from his withdrawal. “Seriously? You're not even going to _try?_ ”

Oh, Jesus, he better find some way to fix this or he's going to get his ass kicked again. This time it won't even be his fault! He tries to mime a pen and a piece of paper, but his signing is so crude she doesn't understand, and even if she did, he's pretty sure they wouldn't let him have anything pointy enough to write with. Damn it, damn it, _damn it._

He grabs her hand again, meaning to show her that he's willing to do what she wants, but she's moved, so he has to get both hands on her wrist to try to turn her palm up. She stiffens like it's an attack. Oh, _shit_ , she thinks it's an attack.

“Take your hands off me or I'll take them off _for_ you.”

If only his fucking eyes would fucking open, she'd be able to see panic, not disdain. But they won't. Defeated, he drops her wrist and _whines_ , low in his throat. Like a fucking hurt _dog_.

For a moment, something like recognition flickers in her eyes. Like she realizes, hey, it's _Benny_ being pathetic, that it's _his_ voice making that miserable sound, not some random jackass Legionary. But he can see the wheels turning as she evaluates the possibility of that whimper being familiar—then tosses it aside with a _nah, couldn't possibly be_.

He considers trying to reach out to her again, slow and gentle so she can't mistake his intentions, but she's already leaning back out of his reach, hands on her knees as she starts to stand up. Is she about to leave? No, she can't leave him here! This can't all have been for nothing.

What else can he do? How can he keep her from running out on him? Stand up and drop his pants? Maybe she'd remember _that._

Standing might be harder than it sounds. He's not too bad off from the neck down, just exhausted and sort of lightly tenderized, but the thing is—he never noticed this before—he _clenches his jaw_ when he's trying to get to his feet in a hurry. The spike of pain that jolts through him makes him grit his teeth _harder_ by reflex, because why the fuck not? Still, he manages to lunge forward on his knees before she can do more than take a step back. He ends up kneeling in front of her, battered face hovering near her belt buckle.

She doesn't kick him over on instinct, but her hand makes a fist and she rears back, ready to knock him down if he so much as twitches wrong. To show he's not trying to hurt her, he puts his hands up—submissive, placating—and tries to shake his head without rattling his brain too much.

Pussycat stares at him, still all set to hit him, but her brow has knit. “You trying to tell me something, Bashful?”

Slowly, _so_ slowly, he lowers his head enough for it to qualify as a nod, and hopes that much movement won't spook her into punching his head until it's pulp.

“I'm listening.”

He makes some kind of sound, a meaningless something to keep the conversation going. She's not gone yet. He wants to snag her by the belt to make sure she'll stick around, but he has the feeling she won't take too kindly to that.

Now that he's past the moment of blind panic, he also knows it ain't such a great idea to whip out his cock with no warning. Even if she didn't take offense—which she _would_ —it's not exactly one of a kind. Not that it ain't respectable enough, and she seemed impressed with it back at the Tops, but…

He flashes back to his suite then. Not the bed this time, but the moment when she'd said she needed to stretch her legs, so she'd gotten up to pour herself a drink. She hadn't even bothered with a sheet for modesty, and he'd followed her because he couldn't let her out of his sight for a second. Not because he didn't trust her—or rather, not _just_ because he didn't trust her—but because his eyes couldn't get enough of the sight of her. And he'd dropped to his knees in front of her at the bar, like this, and made her forget there was a tumbler of whiskey in her hand.

Fat lot of good that line of thinkin' can do him now, with a broken jaw. But maybe, if he's cautious, he can do something that'll ring a bell, anyhow.

He still has his hands up, defensive, safe. And even with everything else that's happened to him, at least _those_ are still in working order, so he moves them to her thighs. The left slides down a little, then around the back of her knee and up to the same spot that made her go all quivery before. The right drifts up the front, with the right leisurely pace and the exact amount of pressure, heavy-handed but not bruising, that he knows she likes. He _knows_ her, _intimately_. She has to get it this time. She has to, she fucking _has_ to.

She doesn't. Probably should have seen that coming. Her knee slams into his middle, right at the pressure point below the sternum. He clutches at her reflexively as he starts to double over, and she reaches down to pry his hands away. He catches sight of the Pip-Boy on her wrist and realizes that he could have used it to _type out a goddamn message_ to her, easy-peasy. But it's too late for that now, as she jerks his hand back at an angle he ain't prepared for, and he feels two of his fingers _snap_ in her grip.

“Not so Bashful after all, huh?” The words come out in a furious snarl, and it occurs to him that the last time he touched her there, they spent at least two hours getting to know each other first. Of course she wouldn't want some stranger jumping straight to the finish line. Damn it. He tries desperately to come up with something that'll stop her from flat-out _murdering_ him for this. He comes up blank.

Shit, fuck, shit. He tries to press his lips together as she shoves him away. If he calls her Pussycat, if he can say that much, then she might still be a little steamed, but she won't _kill_ him—will she? But he freezes up at the thought that he might get out _pussy_ and then get stuck. That'll make things so much worse.

She draws back to punch him, and he throws his arms over his face. With what's left of his good looks covered, she changes tacks. Or maybe she thinks he's going to try and hit her. Her boot _slams_ into his chest and the force sends him sprawling.

The impact with the floor knocks the breath out of him—but like air escaping a balloon, it comes out in a pained, high-pitched _squeak._

She should kick him again, and again and again until there's nothing left but a smear on the floor if things keep going on like they have been. But she doesn't. Why? She waits long enough that he convinces himself it's gotta be a trick, then he finally hears a breathy, “Oh, my god.”

There's a thud of knees hitting the floor, and he feels a hand on his elbow, trying to uncover his face. He tucks himself up tighter. No way he's letting her get away with that.

“I...” Her fingers tighten on his sleeve. “Benny?”

Oh, _now_ she fuckin' gets it. Then a sense of relief makes him giddy. _Now she fuckin' gets it_! He lets her draw his arms away from his face, and struggles to turn his head enough to look up at her through his one half-usable eye.

“ _Benny_?” she repeats, looking like _she's_ the one who's been kicked in the chest.

He pulls his arm out of her grip, moves his fingers to her palm, and firmly taps her once for yes. He'd smirk at her if he could. He'd feel better if he could be a smartass about it.

She makes a few sputtering sounds that are only slightly more coherent than the noises he's been making, and gives his hand a squeeze. It's not the one _she broke_ , so he figures she means the gesture to be friendly.

“I didn't know—I—What are you _doing_ here?” He can't answer, of course, but she doesn't need him to. “Benny...”

When she says his name, it sounds like an apology. He clings to her hand, hoping she'll stay for a minute. He knows the hand-holding and the soothing voice won't last forever, but just for a minute, just for right now, he wants to rest his head in her lap and let her feel sorry for him. He needs to not be alone. He can't take any more of this, not now.

But when she lets him go and runs for the door, yelling for Boyd to bring her some _fucking stimpaks_ , well, that's good, too. A minute later, she comes back and—gentle as possible—sticks him with the needles. One in his hand, one right up under his jaw, and another in the back of his neck. Slowly, the swelling starts to recede enough that he can open his eyes and look at her properly. His brain stops feeling so foggy-addled, too. Thank fuckin' god.

“Better?” Pussycat asks after the bones have started to knit. She keeps on squeezing his hand. He nods, she looks relieved, but he just can't leave it at that.

“Took you long enough.” He's petulant, and he knows that ain't the way to play this, but he just can't help himself. He should be sweet-talking her. He's supposed to be _good_ at that.

A frown chases away the tender look in her eyes, and she disentangles her fingers from his. An apology is on the tip of his tongue, an apology and whatever amount of begging it's going to take to convince her not to leave him there, but she doesn't give him the chance.

“I'm going to talk to Colonel Hsu. I'll get you out of here.”

She starts to get up, but—she shakes her head a little, like she's losing an argument with herself—leans over to kiss him instead. It's gentle, quick, and surprises him enough that he couldn't return it properly even if his jaw still wasn't tender.

“What's that for?” he whispers when her lips break from his.

“To remind me why I felt bad for hitting you.” She gives him a gentle push on the shoulder. “ _'Took you long enough.'_ Jackass.”

And then she's gone.

It's over. Benny leans up against the wall. It's finally, finally _over._ She'll get everything all straightened out, they'll walk off into the sunset together, and he'll take her to bed for a couple of weeks—he'll even spend at least one of 'em sleeping.

Then, even though the swelling is down and the hurt is fading, even though he knows he's safe, he floats away on a tide of memories and memories-to-be, and only comes back to himself when a couple of MPs are hoisting him up by the arms.

“Wha—” he says blearily. It still _hurts—_ the stimpaks are helping with the bruising, but taking their own sweet time to finish work on the bone—but at least he can get out real words, or something close enough to pass for it.

“Time to go.” They walk him out into the hallway, brisk and impersonal. Benny's pretty sure he's never seen these two before, but it ain't like he's been getting a real good look at most of the people he's been meeting. They keep him upright when he's a little shaky on his feet, and they don't try bashing him into the wall, so he goes along with them without complaint.

Not that he'd fight them anyway. He's still half stuck in that dreamy place where a beautiful broad is holding him and whispering sweet nothings, and his brain can't quite catch up to the fact that _this_ is the thing that's real. He knows it's happening to him because he can see his feet when he looks down, but for all he _feels_ , he might as well be watching a movie, the colors faded to soft greys, background noise coming in muted and staticky. But if this is a movie, there's a major character missing from the scene.

“Where...” Where's Pussycat? She said _I'll get you out of here_ , so shouldn't she be doing the getting? Or is she playing another little prank, getting him all worked up and then walking out on him again? If so, he can't even get too sore about it. At least she got him released first.

“Outside. This way.” They lead him down a flight of stairs and out a set of double doors, into the sun. He has to squint against the too-bright light, and that makes everything come in a little more sharp and real.

He looks around again for Pussycat, or at least for that Boyd, who seems like she's the one in charge of prisoners. He knows enough about the NCR to know how much they love their _procedure_. They wouldn't let him go without her signing six different kinds of paperwork and handing him the copies. But she ain't there.

The only thing that _is_ there is one of those old pre-war army trucks, which is making a disgruntled sort of growling sound and trying to shake itself to pieces. It takes him a second to realize that somebody's actually managed to get the damn thing running after two hundred years on the scrap heap.

But—why? He plants his feet, just to see what'll happen. The MPs shove him toward the truck. Not a good sign.

“Wait—wait a second.” They shove him harder, so he digs in with his heels, leaning back and dropping his center of gravity. They can still move him forward, but they'll have to work a little harder. “I said hang on!”

“Just get on the truck,” one of them says wearily.

“You gotta let me know what's goin' on first!”

“Prisoner transport. Get on the truck.”

Right, he remembers Boyd saying something about sending him someplace or other. Correctional facility, wasn't it? But he should be off the hook for that if Pussycat's talking to Colonel—Shoe, did she say? Apparently these mooks didn't get the message.

“Listen—this is gonna sound crazy, but you got the wrong guy.”

“Yeah, sure we do. _Get on the truck_.”

He starts actively fighting back. Not that he expects to get free, but at least if there's a commotion on the grounds, somebody with authority is sure to come running.

“I'm telling you—you've got—the wrong—guy!” He finally manages to get an arm loose, and smashes one of the MPs in the face. That one falls back with a pained grunt, but the other one locks an arm around Benny's throat and wrestles him to the ground.

“Get the cuffs on him!”

“Ngh—no—listen! Will you _listen_ to me?” Obviously not. The one with the bloody nose locks a set of handcuffs around one of his wrists. Benny stops trying to pry the arm off his neck and focuses on keeping his free hand away from the cuffs. “Stop! You don't want me, I swear! Ask her, she'll tell you!”

“Who?”

“Uh—” He still doesn't know Pussycat's real name. How can he _still_ not know her _name_?! In his moment of confusion, they snap the other half of the cuffs on him and start to haul him up off the ground. “Boyd,” he says desperately. “Ask Boyd!” Even if Pussycat hasn't explained the situation to her, that'll buy him some time.

The MPs hesitate. To encourage them, Benny stops resisting and hangs, limp and panting, between them.

“Should I go get her?” one asks the other.

“She's in a meeting with Colonel Hsu and that civilian muckety-muck. You want to interrupt them?”

“Guess not.”

They try to throw him into the truck, but Benny kicks his feet up and braces them against the fender, holding himself back with more strength than he knew he had left.

“Interrupt the meeting! They won't mind! Nobody likes meetings!”

They give him one last fierce shove, and his feet slide sideways and he goes tumbling in.

“Just shut up and enjoy the ride.” They slam the back of the truck shut while he's still trying to get his feet under him.

“No!” He bangs his hands against the little plastic window. It doesn't do much good. “Ask the—the muckety-muck! The courier! I'm with her! I swear, I'm not just bullshitting you! _Listen_!”

They disappear from sight. A couple seconds later, the truck jerks forward, his feet go out from under him, and his face slams into the window. That's gettin' to be a little too familiar.

Benny stops yelling pretty quick after that, and tries to cling to the edge of the window, because god _damn_ , he's never moved this fast before, and he feels like he might just go flying off the face of the earth. Is this how everybody got around in the old days? All those busted-up cars he's seen in all the parking lots and by the sides of the roads, barreling along the highways out of control at a speed that's gotta be borderline suicidal. People were crazy back then. Apparently, California people still are.

He watches the airport building shrink away to the size of a toy. He's on his way, no stopping it now. And at least he's _alone_ in the back of the truck, so he figures if whoever's driving doesn't go flying off the edge of a cliff, he might actually survive the trip. As for what happens at the end of it, well...can't be worse than what he's been through already, can it?

He ought to sit down and try to keep the truck from bouncing him through the ceiling, but he just can't seem to take his eyes off the building. Just before they get too far away to make anything out, he sees a tiny human figure come running out the door, waving its hands in the universal gesture for _get the fuck back here!_

Is it her? He'd like to think it's her, trying to get him back. That's the kind of thought that'll keep him company when he gets to prison, but it's too far away to really tell. The figure takes off after them on foot, still waving its arms, but the driver doesn't see it, and before too long they've left it behind.


	6. ...so until I go there with you...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hereby dedicate this chapter to aberedstone 'cause I feel like it. (One update for the week down, one to go! Let's see if I can pull it off!)
> 
> This chapter contains some points that might be triggering or squicky for some readers. However, as the content advisories are quite spoilery, please see the end notes for details.

A truck's speed is something a guy can get used to, apparently. It's still ludicrous and unsafe and just plain _wrong,_ but after a while, Benny figures it ain't gonna kill him. The movement is doing something to him that his stomach ain't too pleased with, but he'll survive. So he ignores it. He's got work to do.

First he tries the door. He can't get it open, not that he expected anything different. He checks the handcuffs. Same deal. But maybe there's something else he can use.

This thing is obviously not meant to transport prisoners, or at least not _just_ for that. There's a bunch of boxes in there with him, some wood, some metal, all sealed, all clearly labeled, because the NCR is real particular about that kind of thing. Laundry, Infirmary, Cafeteria. He's heard that last word before, somewhere, but it takes a second for the meaning to click.

 _Food_.

He throws himself at the box. It'd be kind of embarrassing if there was anyone to see him, but he's alone, and besides that, he's _starving_ , so he pries at the wooden lid with his fingernails, and when that doesn't work, he crouches down and kicks it until it starts to splinter.

Success! He reaches into the gap he's made and tears the wood away. He does almost as much damage to his fingers as he does to the box, but all he cares about is that he can see what's inside: neat rows of tightly packed...bottles of water.

He settles back on his heels. No food. That's not fair. It's...just not fair.

Benny shoves the box aside to check behind it for another. For once, luck is on his side: there's a second, smaller crate with _Cafeteria_ scrawled on it. By the time he busts it open, his fingers are full of splinters and the skin around his nails has torn back and started to bleed, but it's worth it. Nestled in with another bunch of water bottles are a couple containers of YumYum Deviled Eggs. He wants to kiss the boxes, but settles for tearing one open instead.

He's so hungry, he almost forgets himself and starts scarfing it down, but he gets a hold of himself just in time. Thank god for a couple decades of tribal living. His stomach hasn't held anything solid in more than a week; if he introduces it to a pound of eggs all at once, they'll come back up to take revenge all over his shirt.

He puts an egg in his mouth—the whole thing, he can't stop himself—and settles back against the wall of the truck with an involuntary shudder. It's the most incredible thing he's ever tasted. He doesn't even like deviled eggs, but good fuckin' _god,_ it's real food. He has to remind himself to slow down and chew, instead of just swallowing it whole.

It's gone all too soon, and he's licked the last traces of yolk from his fingers. (Kinda tastes like blood and dirt, but he'll take it.) His hand twitches as he fights the urge to snatch up another one and gulp it down. He is _not_ letting these eggs go to waste. The way things have been going, the prison guards won't see any reason to feed him, either. He'll probably get solitary confinement, too, for stealing supplies.

He picks up another egg and bites into it. Solitary sounds like a nice vacation after everything he's been through.

And just as he's thinking that, there's a _scream_ from the front of the truck, and the sound of tearing metal and breaking glass, and the truck jerks a little to the side as the engine gets a whole lot louder and starts to sound like it's really straining.

There's a gunshot. Then three more in quick succession. On instinct, Benny flattens himself on his belly, still chewing frantically because choking on a mouthful of egg in a crisis ain't how he wants to meet death. The truck jerks again, lurches forward and picks up speed. The sound of rending metal is back, but sustained this time—and after a second or two, there's a bright ray of sunlight in the back of the truck that wasn't there before.

Benny looks up to see three razor-sharp claws half as long as his arm just punched right through the steel like it's soft plastic. It's right about the level his head would have been if he hadn't dropped flat, and it doesn't take a detective to put the clues together: they found a fuckin' Deathclaw. Not too surprising on this stretch of road, but not being a surprise doesn't exactly make it a welcome addition to an already shitty day.

The truck powers forward, and the claws keep tearing down the side of the truck, like a can opener—and he's the Pork 'n Beans. _Shit_.

He scoots over to the crates he smashed, and picks up the biggest chunk of wood he can find. It ain't much, but at least he won't be completely unarmed when it reaches in and scoops him out—except it doesn't. The claws wiggle up and down, almost like it's stuck, and the gash in the steel goes back in a straight line—like it's losing ground. Can a truck outrun a Deathclaw? He's prepared to take back every unfair thing he's been thinking about pre-war drivers and their thing about speed.

The claws scrape all the way to the back of the truck, bust out the back window, and then pop free. He gets a glimpse of a snarling monster face, and then the truck _zooms_ away from the scene. Without a one-ton mutant lizard holding it back, turns out the thing can really move when the pressure's on.

Benny scrambles to his feet and goes to the busted window just to make sure they're really leaving the thing behind. It's there, at a little distance now—a distance that grows with each passing second—but still running after them. _Angry_.

He could throw something at it, maybe. Try to slow it down some. It probably won't help, but it couldn't hurt.

But as he tries to look for something to throw, the truck jolts over an especially bad section of the road—or maybe their speed just makes the potholes feel worse—and the swaying motion suddenly hits him even harder than it already was. That, in combination with two-hundred-year-old eggs after a week's worth of hunger, and the white-knuckled terror that would be flooding through any halfway reasonable person being chased by an angry Deathclaw—it's too much. His stomach rolls, contracts, and expels what feels like everything he's ever put in it.

Throwing up under ordinary circumstances might not be fun, but it ain't so bad standing still. Not compared to tossing his cookies at high speed. The truck jostles him up, down and sideways as he clings to the side of a box and heaves. By the time he's through, tears are streaming from his eyes just from the sheer _force_ of his stomach contractions and the _smell_.

To a starving man, two hundred year old eggs were pretty agreeable goin' down; comin' up is another matter. It's enough to launch another set of heaves. He throws up until there's nothin' left. He ain't even sure his stomach's still inside him when he's through. Ugh.

Benny wipes his mouth. Coughs a couple of times. Spent, abdominal muscles screaming from being used so much, so fast, he crawls away from the box and leans against the farthest wall.

At least today can't get any—

He doesn't even get to complete the thought. Why would he? The truck comes to an abrupt, screeching halt, and Benny's thrown across the compartment, right into the boxes. A wrist snaps on impact—the one that _hasn't_ been broken a couple of times already, and he can't decide if that's a mercy or ironic salt in the wound—and he's treated to chunks of egg-vomit all up his back, but his neck ain't broken.

Why are they stopping? He struggles to get up and see what's going on, then abruptly changes direction and crams as much of himself as he can behind the boxes when he looks out the back window and sees the Deathclaw tearing toward them, faster than he's ever seen one run before. Or maybe that's an illusion because they're not moving. He hears the engine struggling to get going, really whining— _nng nng nng_ —while somebody shrieks at it, “C _'mon you piece of shit! Start!”_

He sees a flash of scales through the tears in the steel along the side of the truck and folds himself up between the boxes in case it catches a glimpse of him. Glass shatters; Benny slams his eyes shut when he hears the sound.

Some more screaming, the kind that sounds like words or orders or something, but it's so hysterical he can't make out what they're supposed to be. The tin foil _crunch_ of steel getting folded up, another series of shots. A couple of the stray bullets punch holes in the back compartment of the truck and burst some of the bottles in their crates. Water gushes everywhere, flooding the floor, soaking him through.

Then there's a _roar_ and a _whistle_ that sends a chill racing down his spine the way a spark spits fire up a line of gasoline. His brain gibbers just two words and he just about shits his pants:

_Fat Man!_

Benny yanks his arms up over his head, because what the hell else is he going to do? He ain't even got time to get into the position to properly kiss his ass goodbye. Some moron gave his escorts a mini nuke, and now they're shooting it off all willy-nilly just 'cause a Deathclaw startled 'em. Fuckers couldn't just die with dignity and leave him a fighting chance, oh no, they gotta be all bomb-happy and blow his odds of survival too. Best case scenario, he crawls away from this with one good limb left and only slightly irradiated. More likely he leaves a Benny-shaped scorch mark as the only evidence he ever existed.

When the bomb hits, the earth shattering _boom_ rattles his teeth. Makes his ears ring so loud and so long he can't hear a damn thing outside his own head. The shock wave feels like the strongest gust of wind a man could withstand without the meat flying right off his bones. But he's alive. Somehow. The ceiling ain't crashed in on him, though the front of the truck compartment has peeled back and inward from the blast, exposing him to the open air.

Still deaf to anything but the ringing in his ears, Benny drags himself up against one of the boxes and peeks out from behind it. The...what would you call it, cockpit? He ain't too up on his car lingo. The place where the driving happens. It's chewed up like a tin can. A chunk of the driver's side door is missing, the window shattered and bloody like something reached in and dragged the poor sucker out. Not exactly hard to figure what happened: this thing's a lunchbox on wheels and the driver was unlucky enough to get designated the main course.

By now the guy's certainly nothing but little chunks mashed up between the Deathclaw's teeth. That's one mystery solved. But where's the other NCR mook? Where'd the Fat Man hit? And why the _fuck_ is Benny still in one piece instead of a much more reasonable fifty?

The passenger door stands open, swaying slightly in the breeze. Swallowing hard, trying to listen over the high pitched tone that muffles everything else, Benny crawls forward and takes refuge behind another box. From this position, he can just see out the door.

On the ground, there's a corpse—smoking and burning, skin sizzling to a crisp, with a flamer clutched in its rapidly blackening hands. Beside that, there's an empty Fat Man catapult. The flamer must have malfunctioned and set the poor bastard on fire. Must have landed on the catapult and it went off, sending a bomb flying into the distance. Far enough away that he ain't dead; close enough that he can see a mini mushroom cloud in silhouette against the sky.

Benny looks away from the body. Not that he was friendly enough with those two to be too broken up over their deaths, but a charred human corpse ain't a real pretty sight. And the _smell_...His stomach turns over again, and he staggers over to lean against what's left of the truck, fighting down another wave of nausea. There's nothing left to come up, but his body doesn't seem to know that. Good thing there's plenty of water in the truck.

Some of the bottles from the crate he tore open have rolled across the compartment, so he twists the cap off one. After rinsing the vomit taste out of his mouth and spitting, he takes a few careful sips. Then he buries his nose in his sleeve, as best he can with both hands still cuffed. That takes care of the worst of the smell, at least.

Carefully, he leans out of the truck and scans the area. Unless one of the NCR guys managed to lethally wound the monster while in their death throes, it can't have gotten far.

There it is. A little ways from the truck, thrashing in the sand on its back, trying to right itself. It's probably shrieking, too, but Benny still can't hear. He can't tell if it's dyin' or not, but the blast was enough to tear open steel; clearly it was also enough to throw the Deathclaw off its feet and back a ways.

He can't stay in the truck; there's a single exit, and if the Deathclaw's got enough strength, it'll come back this way to pick over the ruins of its 'kill.' Then he'll be trapped. But he ain't thrilled with the idea of making a run for it, either. Hiding _inside_ feels so much safer than drawing attention to himself _outside_ , so he hesitates, even though he knows that's the wrong thing to do. But he's only human.

But he _has_ to get going. A stunned Deathclaw won't stay stunned forever, and even a dying Deathclaw might have a mate. Those alpha males are even worse than the regular kind.

Benny stuffs a couple of bottles of water down his shirt for later, since he doesn't have a pack to carry them in. Then he crawls back out into the sunlight, finds his feet and gets into a real compact crouch.

For a guy who grew up tribal, he's never been too good at stealth. He's better than average in the city, but out in the desert he wouldn't trust his life to that particular skill if he had any kind of choice about it. But he doesn't, so he creeps across the sand, making for the nearest bit of possible cover as silently as he can manage. With his ears still ringing, he can't be sure how successful he is, but he risks a quick glance back after he puts twenty paces between him and the truck. The Deathclaw's dragging itself to its feet, limping, but it doesn't seem to see him. Yet.

At least there's a rock formation nearby, about a hundred, maybe a hundred fifty, yards out from the highway. It's a nice big wall of stones, with one little overhang that looks like the mouth of a cave that's too small for a Deathclaw to fit through. If he can just _get_ there, he can wait it out in relative safety. Provided it isn't full of mole rats that'll nibble him to death.

But the going is so slow; he's gotta keep checking over his shoulder because he can't hear if he's making enough noise to get its attention, or if it's coming up behind him. That's not the kind of surprise he'd like.

For now, it's preoccupied with the slab of barbecue that used to be an NCR officer. That won't last forever, though.

When he gets close enough to the rock face that its shadow looms over him, blocking out the worst of the sun's heat, he feels himself relax a little. Not a lot, but enough that he can breathe a little deeper without feeling like he's gonna fall on his ass.

He looks back at the Deathclaw again, and this time the movement knocks him just slightly off balance. It only takes a second for him to catch himself, but his hearing's cleared up enough that he can hear his own foot _scrape_ across the ground. He freezes.

The Deathclaw's head whips around, and it drops into a hunting stance.

Oh shit. It growls when its eyes fall on him, and throws itself into a run. OH SHIT.

Benny scrambles to straighten up and sprint, but he's clumsy without his hands loose for balance. He collides with the sand, exposed skin getting friction burns on the way down, but drags himself up again and is off like a shot, legs pumping as hard as they can. Deathclaws are big and lumbering, but they cover a lot of ground fast with those strong, long legs. And he just lost a second's lead that could mean the difference between life and a meet-and-greet with a set of Deathclaw chompers.

 _Ohshitohshitohshitohshit_ bounces through his head in time with his footfalls, _ohshitohshitohshit._ Nothing else. No clever ideas, no angles, just raw, very human panic, _ohshitohshitohshitoh_ —

Is he screaming? He might be screaming. If he is, it sounds far away, a long, drawn out _aaaaaaaaah_ that doesn't sound at all like his own voice to his still mostly-deaf ears.

Benny skids to a stop when he reaches the rocks, throws himself toward the overhang and the hole beneath. But it's blocked by some smaller stones and he's left staring over his shoulder at the Deathclaw in hot pursuit while he digs them out with bloodied fingers and throws them aside. When enough are clear that he squeeze inside, he flings himself into the tiny cave opening head first.

And gets stuck.

Fuck! One of the water bottles in his shirt's gotten lodged under him, making him a couple inches too fat to fit! He had to be all fucking prudent about dehydration and now he's going to fucking die for it!

Now, with the sound echoing off the too-close walls of the cave, he's _sure_ he's screaming. Maybe even words; he's too panicked to pay attention to what they are, but definitely screaming.

His feet scrabble furiously in the sand behind him, trying to get enough force under 'em to propel himself the rest of the way into the hole. His shoulders wriggle wildly as he tries to drag himself forward with one good hand and a fucking broken wrist. He can't get a good grip on anything, with hand or foot—the sand is too loose under his shoes, his hands are imprisoned in the steel cuffs that keep them too close together—for _fuck's sake_!

The ground shakes under him with the weight of the approaching Deathclaw. It's going to yank him out by the leg any second if he can't get to cover. With one last desperate pitch forward, using every ounce of effort he's got left, he pops free into the cave. He rolls over onto his back, and scuttles backward like a Mirelurk, away from the opening just in time to see the clawed feet outside come to a stop.

The cave ain't too deep into the rock, but Benny presses himself flush against the back wall as one long arm shoots into the hole and makes a grab for him. The Deathclaw swings it back and forth, snatching at empty air with claws that could rip a man open. Sweat trickles down his face, down his back. Benny's hyperventilating, trying to catch his breath, but his wheezing is quickly becoming hysterical laughter that makes him dizzy.

The Deathclaw can't reach. Barely. There's three or four inches of space between him and the tip of its talons. So long as he stays curled up like this, tight up against the wall, it'll never touch him. He can't get out, sure—he huffs and puffs and _cackles_ into the darkness—but at least he won't get his intestines tickled out by a set of knife-length claws.

All right, he thinks with a giggle-wheeze, wedging himself up into the deepest corner of the cave. _Now_ today can't get any worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serious advisories for this chapter: vomiting, somewhat gruesome minor character death, body horror, acoustic trauma induced temporary hearing loss.
> 
> Less serious advisories: attempted Deathclaw tickle time.


	7. ...heaven can...

For the first hour, all Benny thinks about is the Deathclaw. It paces, back and forth, right outside the hole. He thinks of teeth and claws and wonders why it hasn't gotten bored yet, if Deathclaws don't get bored, if they're clever masters of the waiting game or just too stupid to wander off when prey has escaped, or whether or not it'll figure out some way to tear down solid rock.

The second hour has a little more variety. His thoughts circle: _Deathclaw, Deathclaw, Jesus Christ my knees are cramping, if I ever get out of here I'll never be able to stand up straight again, Deathclaw_.

The third hour, he gets thirsty and drinks half a bottle of water. Saves the rest. This hour is filled by _ow, my fucking back_ , and _ow, my fucking neck_ and _Deathclaw, Deathclaw, Deathclaw_.

The hour after that, all he can think about is how bad he needs to pee, so he unzips and aims for the Deathclaw's arm the next time it sticks its claw inside the hole to grab for him. It's spiteful, and it's disgusting, and it's not like it hurts the fuckin' thing, but it makes him feel better. He'll take what he can get.

Half an hour later, when he's sure he'll never be able to unbend his legs for the rest of his life, the Deathclaw lies down beside the hole, putting its eye close enough to peer in at him. It watches him in his dark little hole for a minute, blinks a few times and... _falls the fuck asleep._ And purrs. It fucking purrs! Like that silly little animal in _The Cat From Outer Space_! It twitches in its sleep, and whinnies, and _purrs._ Benny starts to hate it more than ever.

At the six hour mark, the little patch of sky he can see outside starts turning gold. The sun is beginning to set, the Deathclaw is still out cold—or looks it—and the cave is starting to cool. Benny wraps his arms around himself as best he can with the handcuffs and the broken wrist in the way. It's not enough to keep him warm through the night, he's not fool enough to think it is, but it chases off some of the chill. If help doesn't come soon, or if he doesn't come up with some brilliant plan, he's going to die in here.

But then his eyes are getting heavy, and the screaming in his joints is a familiar dull roar that he can ignore. He's so fucking tired. Hungry and cold and tired and scared. Can't forget scared. He's worn out. In spite of his better instincts, his blinks get longer, and his breathing slows until he finally drops off to sleep.

* * *

He wakes up some time later, in the dark, with a claw hooked into his shoe. Right into the part that lies against his heel, the cool curved talon pressed up against his skin without tearing, tugging at the leather. _Yanking_ him toward the mouth of the cave. He must have stretched out in his sleep, and the damn Deathclaw was playing possum! If he weren't so terrified, he'd have the presence of mind to admire its ingenuity, con artist to con artist. Benny kicks out at the claw with a savage cry, and the shoe peels loose from his foot. It goes flying and patters outside the cave in the sand, coming to rest in front of the Deathclaw's nose.

It _huffs_ at him, the fucker, like it's such an obnoxious inconvenience that he won't just lie down and _die_.

“Oh, well, I'm _sorry_ to disappoint,” he snaps, curling up tight against the wall again. “Go eat somebody else!”

It roars, and he winces against the echo.

“I'm lousy eating, anyway! Tough and stringy!” That's probably not true. He's definitely chubby enough to have some nice marbling going—WHAT IS HE DOING? “Why am I talking to a Deathclaw?!”

It makes a long, wavering growl, and it's probably just his ears playing tricks on him, but the intonation sounds like, “Because, you dummy,” and then some more he can't make out.

Jesus, he needs to get back to civilization, pronto. He's imagining he's having a conversation with the thing that's trying to eat him. This is what prolonged stress does to the human brain.

“You ever feel like you're losing your mind?” he asks the Deathclaw.

It rakes at the stone with its claws.

“Just _go away_.” His voice isn't quite a whine, but it's edging close. “Come back in a week when I've starved to death out in the desert, huh? Let me roast and dry out in the sun a little. Mmm, tasty people jerky.”

It tilts its head, like it's considering the idea, _but that would be crazy_ , then shakes its whole body and snaps its jaw.

“Give a guy a break!”

Of course, that gets him thinking how it's gonna crack open his bones to get to the marrow, and then he doesn't really feel like talking to it anymore. He tucks himself up against the back of the hole as much as he can, and wonders how much longer he can last.

An hour after that, he can't stop shivering, and he admits to himself that even if the Deathclaw gives up and goes away, he's probably going to die.

* * *

It's a _hiss_ that wakes him from a sleep he didn't realize he'd fallen into. A long, sustained _hiss_ and a _BANG_. Then a shriek, and a few gunshots that sound small caliber.

Groggy, he opens his eyes to pitch darkness. It takes a beat for his eyes to adjust, but he sees movement outside the mouth of the cave, and empty space. The Deathclaw has moved. To where, he doesn't know, but it's not breathing into the hole anymore.

He doesn't move for a second, because it could be a trick, and he's not gonna go to his death knowing he was outwitted by a Deathclaw. Then he comes a little more awake and remembers that Deathclaws can't use dynamite or guns. Though he might not put it past that one to learn how.

Benny shakes off another layer of sleep, enough to wonder who's using dynamite, then realizes—a bit later than he'd prefer—that dynamite is used to turn rocks into rubble. That's what it's fucking _for._ And he's sitting _inside_ _a rock_.

Can he move? He needs to move, but he's not sure he's limber enough for it now. Stiff from cold, stiff from being crushed into a ball for half the day, and still handcuffed, he's a clumsy tangle of limbs that don't want to work right. But he's got to try. The Deathclaw is far enough away from the hole, distracted by what-or-whoever is out there attacking it, and if he stays here with dynamite being thrown around, he's liable to get trapped behind a wall of debris. He might be knocking on death's door as it is, but he's got enough fight left that he's not going to waltz across the threshold through inaction.

There's not enough room in his hidey-hole to move around much even at the best of times, and it's too dark to really see what he's doing. He throws his weight forward a little too eagerly, and cracks his forehead on a rock. He shifts to the side, trying to find enough purchase to drag himself toward the exit, and something jabs into one of the water bottles he's got stuffed down his shirt and punctures it, soaking him through for the second time. He didn't even notice he was dry until he got wet again. He stops and tries to calm himself down before he makes the situation even worse, somehow. How, he doesn't know, but at this point, he's sure he'll find a way.

There's another _kaboom!_ close enough to kick up a cloud of dust in his face, but this one has a different sound to it than the dynamite. Missile launcher?

He panics.

“Stop trying to blow me up!” he yells, or tries to, but he's breathless and his voice is weak, and there's no way whoever's out there will hear him over the steady slow-paced firing of their bolt-action rifle. He takes the deepest breath he can and tries again. “ _Help_!”

Benny's got enough time to hope he's not asking for help from something _worse_ than a Deathclaw (“What could be worse than a Deathclaw?” a voice prattles in his brain, “A Deathclaw with a missile launcher and dynamite, ha-cha-cha-cha-cha”) before another missile fires and he hears someone say, “Well, knock me down and steal my teeth, there's somebody in there!”

So it ain't raiders. He's sure of that, because raiders don't spout off folksy sayings in voices with old-fashioned country twangs. Neither do Legion. Neither do NCR, probably. Beyond that, he doesn't care. He scoots on his ass toward the light and the voice and the gunfire and the Deathclaw--

He goes still, partly from the realization that it would be certain death to throw himself outside before the fight is finished, but mostly, if he's honest, because he's trembling from head to toe from the effort of moving and his legs have already given out on him.

“Get me outta here!” He can't stop it from turning into a pathetic wail. He'll worry about his pride later, when it rates a mention. Right now, it ain't even in the top ten things he should be concerned with.

“All right, mister, keep your shirt on!” Another explosion rattles his bones, and the Deathclaw roars. Sounds like it's in pain now. The rifle quits firing just long enough for an experienced hand to reload, then the steady _bang—bang—bang_ starts up again.

Benny lets himself hope it'll be enough.

A few more sticks of dynamite sizzle and pop outside, far enough away from the hole that he's pretty sure he won't get sealed in, but close enough to shake some dust loose over his head. He tucks tighter into a ball on instinct, throwing his arms up over his head as best he can to keep the worst of it from spraying in his eyes. There's a lot of noise, screeching and explosions and voices raised in alarm, and then…a long few moments of nothing. The sort of nothing where he can't be sure who won and who's in pieces.

He waits. He knows how to do that by now; he's been at it all day.

Somebody—somebody _human_ —crouches down just outside the hole. Not the old country boy, if Benny has to guess. That body blocking out the moonlight has got a real nice female-looking shape to it.

She looks in on him, and recoils, a hand over her mouth and nose.

“Ugh! It smells like piss and vomit in there!”

“I'm havin' a rough day,” Benny snaps, defensive, and the broad winces.

“God, of course you are. I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to say it like that.” She reaches out a hand to him. “You can come on out now. It's safe.”

Safe? Benny wants to laugh. He can't even remember the last time he was safe, not really. But if the Deathclaw's gone, that's good enough for him. He lets her pull him out into the open air.

There's no way to hide the fact he's still in handcuffs, and the sight of him puts a frown on her face, but she doesn't pull out a gun and shoot him, so that's something.

He sits with his back against the rock wall, because that still feels like his only safe haven, and looks at what's left of Old Deathy.

There ain't much. They've blown the fuckin' thing to smithereens, her and the old man he can see kicking at an oversized severed leg.

“Nice shooting,” he says. It seems a little inadequate to say to someone who just saved his life, but she just shrugs it off anyway.

“You a Powder Ganger?” she asks, and if Benny was feeling a little more like himself, he'd try to find out what a Powder Ganger was, and then try to find out if claiming to be one would get him into less trouble, or more. But he's in bad shape, and his mouth runs faster than his brain.

“A what now?”

Lucky for him, she smiles. Relieved, looks like. So, Powder Ganger: bad. He'll keep that in mind.

“All right,” she says. Easy as that. “I can get those cuffs off, if you promise you're no threat to me and mine.”

What, she's just gonna take his word for it? Jesus, if only he'd met her sooner. But she can probably tell just by looking at him that he ain't gonna be a threat to much more than a coyote sandwich for a while yet. 

“You got my solemn vow,” he says, since it doesn't mean anything, anyway.

“And it's just you out here?” She takes his nod at face value. “Good. I'm Sunny.”

“And I'm—real glad to meet you.” Not the friendliest thing to say, but she accepts it.

“I guess you'd be glad to meet just about anybody, if you were out here all day with a Deathclaw.” She gives a sharp whistle, and a shaggy mutt comes loping out of the darkness and drops itself right in his lap. Benny's never been this close to a dog that wasn't trying to kill him, but it doesn't bite and the fur is warm, so he lets it lie. “Don't worry,” Sunny says, “Cheyenne's a good dog. She earns her keep rescuing folks who get lost out here. 'Course, we usually only have geckos to chase away. Sorry we didn't get out here sooner,” she adds earnestly. “We sure didn't want that thing hanging around our wells, but we were hoping it'd go away on its own. Guess now we know why it didn't.”

“Guess you do.” He doesn't throw in some sleazy line about how it's 'cause he's irresistible. Maybe he's too shaken up to think of it. But she'd be worth a sleazy line or ten, under different circumstances.

“Well, anyhow, we're not far from town. Think you can walk?”

“Sure, no problem.” That's a damn lie, but tribal instinct tells him not to let on. If you come across some asshole in the wasteland begging for help and he's no use to anybody, least of all himself, you leave him behind. It's one of the rules of survival.

It's how the tribes keep on, anyway. Maybe it's different in small-town civilization.

“If you have any trouble, I can ask Victor to carry you.”

“Victor?” Benny looks doubtfully at the old man still poking around the Deathclaw carcass. He looks spry for his age, but _for his age_ is a real important distinction.

Sunny laughs.

“Not him! That's Easy Pete. Victor's just scouting the area to make sure we don't have any more company. Oh, no, wait, there he is.” She points at a spot off to the side of where he sits, and Benny cranes his neck to look. A Securitron rolls toward him, humming a nonsense song in a low voice; something about little lambs eating ivy. Whatever those are.

With an undignified yelp, he tries to throw himself back into the cave. The damn mutt won't let him up, and now House is gonna get his revenge. With a missile launcher, since Pussycat has so helpfully upgraded his army.

“No, no!” Sunny reaches out to steady him with her hands on his shoulders. He can tell she's got some real strength in her grip, but she's using it to comfort instead of menace. “It's all right. You don't have to be scared. Victor wouldn't hurt a fly.”

Benny, understandably, has a hard time believing that. He gets the sentiment, she wants him to know the robot is harmless, but there's a bloody pile of evidence to the contrary lying not thirty feet from where he's sitting. Even if he didn't have a history with House, being terrified of the thing would be absolutely reasonable.

“We're all clear, little lady,” the Securitron calls out. _That's_ the old country boy? Now that Benny's out in the open, he can hear the electronic wrongness in the cheerful twang.

And it's got the face of a cowboy. What the fuck is going on?

Sunny nods her thanks, and gives Benny's shoulder a friendly squeeze before letting go.

“Who's our new friend?” Victor asks brightly, rolling right up next to her. “Poor fella looks nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin' chairs.”

“I don't think he's used to robots. You know how it is.”

“Yes'm, I reckon I do.” If the Securitron's offended, it doesn't come through in its voice, but that doesn't mean much. Benny knows from tinkering with Yes-Man that they don't have a whole lot of range.

Victor wheels around to get a better look at him, a surprisingly human action for something that's got sensors covering every angle. The cowboy face flickers and rolls, and Benny holds his breath, waiting to be shot.

“SYSTEM ERROR SERVER UNAVAILABLE,” the Securitron says flatly. Then the face settles and the twang comes back. “Glad to be makin' your acquaintance, partner. I didn't quite catch your name.”

His mind goes blank. No way is he telling a Securitron his name. If it doesn't recognize him, he wants to keep it that way. What others does he know? Uh...Swank. No, he can't say that. He's got a head full of gambling terms, but every single one he knows that sounds like a name seems to have oiled itself up and slipped out of his brain.

There's the name he left in the desert when the first Securitrons came rolling out, but it's a tribal name. There's not much in him that can pass for tribal anymore.

“Victor, you're scaring the poor guy,” Sunny says gently.

“Beggin' your pardon, stranger,” Victor says to him, with a convincing sadness to his tinny voice. “I know I'm not much to look at, but I can be right fine company once you get to know me.” 

“I believe you. I just get a little nervous around missile launchers, that's all. That thing's not gonna go off, is it?”

“Why, not without my say-so,” Victor says cheerfully, and then waits, leaving another empty space for him to fill in his name.

“Jack,” Benny decides. It's obvious, and it's kind of a step down from what he's been, but he's taken more than a few steps down in the world. It fits for now.

“Well, I'm just bustin' my buttons to meet you, Jack _.”_ Is it Benny's imagination or does he sound doubtful? Is there emphasis on 'his' name, or is he just prickly and looking for things that aren't there? “You been in that hole long?”

Benny glances back at the cave. Now that he's not desperate, now that there's no Deathclaw hunting him, it looks so impossibly small. How did he ever fit? He's kind of impressed with himself. “All day.”

“Victor, can you do something about those handcuffs?” Sunny asks, slinging her rifle over her shoulder into its holster and nodding at Benny's hands. “Don't think he'd want Easy Pete to blow 'em off.”

At first, Benny can't think what she means, and then the pieces snap into place. Rifle, missile launcher, _dynamite_. No, he doesn't want Easy Pete to blow 'em off.

But he doesn't want Victor to 'do something' about them with a missile, either. He shrinks back as the Securitron extends a metal arm toward him.

“No, that's okay—if you'll just give me a bobby pin—”

Victor snags him by the linking chain between the shackles, and he squeaks because his wrist is still busted in two. “Awful sorry, there, friend. This won't take but a minute.”

Almost delicately—for a couple of rusty, clacking pincers, anyway—the Securitron pinches one of the bits of chain between his steel claws and applies pressure. The metal bends alarmingly, then snaps in half, and it's hard not to think about what those things could do to a human being if the robot ever took a fancy to using them that way. Flesh and bone is no match for electric motors and pneumatic pistons wrapped in twelve-gauge steel. It's almost enough to make a man sorry he's not still under threat from a Deathclaw.

The chain falls away, and Benny's left with two rattling bracelets that he can almost ignore. He clutches his broken wrist to him with a hiss of pain. Then he rolls his shoulders back and stretches his arms out to the sides. Fuck, that feels good. Almost feels like freedom.

“Thanks,” he says hesitantly. He's still not sure if Victor's just fucking with him, or maybe waiting to attack when he's got no witnesses, but it feels so nice to be able to move his arms, he'll play along for now.

“We should get you back to town.” Sunny's not looking at him when she says it, she's too busy watching Easy Pete pick over the Deathclaw for bits of meat, but she glances back at him with a weak smile. “It's nothing fancy, Jack, but we've got a doctor. Better than lots of places, these days.”

“Trudy, up at the saloon, she'll set you up with a hot meal,” Victor adds, putting his claw on Benny's shoulder in a gesture that's meant to be friendly. Benny can't find it anything but terrifying, but he tries not to let on that he wants to run screaming. “Best vittles in Goodsprings, so they tell me. If you've been in that hole all day, you must be so hungry your stomach thinks your throat's been cut.”

He gets so hung up on whether or not that's supposed to sound threatening that his brain skips right over the word _Goodsprings_. But soon enough, it circles back around and processes the significance. Benny's muscles clench, all along the front of his chest, rippling oddly, and it takes a second to realize that he's on the verge of laughing more hysterically than he did when he got cornered in that hole. He stuffs it down, but only barely, and nods because he doesn't quite trust his voice.

Goodsprings? Goodsprings. Of course Goodsprings. Why _not_ Goodsprings?

“Hey—you all right?” Sunny asks. He has her attention again, and the look she gives him is pitying. Maybe she thinks he's overcome by the offer of food. He probably would be, if his whole brain wasn't stuck on processing the reality of _this_ place, where he made that first mistake that started him down this path. The place where he first met _her_.

Fucking Goodsprings. He bites down on another hysterical giggle, and what makes it past his teeth sounds like a choked-off sob. Sunny—a real sweet kid, but a little naive—accepts what she hears and doesn't try to look any deeper.

“Victor, get him to the Doc,” she says urgently. “I'll stay and make sure Pete gets back okay.”

“Can do!” Before Benny can react, a metal arm slides under his knees, the other goes behind his shoulders—and, sure, _now_ the fuckin' dog gets off him. He ain't even sure how the Securitron bent over to get to him, but suddenly he's being cradled like a baby and they're rolling and bumping up the path, feeling like they're gonna topple over any second. “Well, now this sure does bring memories!” Victor says, still as cheerful as can be. “Wasn't but a few months back, I found a little missy out in the graveyard and brought her back to town just like this. Of course, she was bleedin' like a stuck pig from a headshot, so she didn't talk back none.”

Great. It wants to chit-chat about the first day of the worst part of his life. Or maybe it's trying to shake him; maybe it knows he's responsible and wants to see him sweat. Who knows? Today just gets better and better.

“I can walk.” Except he's not totally sure he can. But if it means he won't be lugged around like a sack of tatoes by a robot that could snap him like a twig, he'll try. He'll _crawl_ if he has to.

“If you'd rather, friend.” Victor rolls to a stop and sets him down. To his surprise, he does it carefully, putting him right on his feet; after everything else he's been through, he'd expect to just get dumped in the sand.

His knees buckle, and he falls against Victor's side. The robot rocks back a little, but Benny's weight ain't nearly enough to knock him over.

“I'm okay,” he says quickly, trying to right himself. He was stuck in that crack in the wall for _hours_. It'll take some time to get his joints working right. And one of his shoes is still gone, a fact he managed to forget until sand squished up between his toes, so he's on uneven footing even without the stiffness.

“'Course you are, friend.” The words should sound condescending, but they don't. At least not on the surface. Maybe if he really digs into that gentle drawl, Benny can pull out an excuse to feel defensive, but he'd have to work at it. The damn thing is friendly, and it seems genuine, which just makes him distrust it all the more. Victor holds out one of his arms, curved where there ought to be an elbow, but doesn't draw any attention to the offer of a steadying hand. “Town ain't but a hop, skip and a jump from here.”

What's that supposed to mean? Benny's pretty damn sure he can't hop, skip, or jump anywhere, but he takes a careful step forward and manages to stay upright. Barely, but it should get better when he gets used to moving again.

He hopes there ain't any radscorpion stingers buried in the sand. And if there are, he hopes the venom doesn't take its time finishing him off. He's been through enough.

Neither of them acknowledge the fact Benny is leaning on Victor's arm for support as he takes his first few steps ahead. He's too proud, and the robot's too polite.

“So what brings you out this way, Jack?” Victor asks pleasantly, wheeling along slow enough that he doesn't outpace his new traveling companion. Thoughtful, almost, but that ain't right.

There's a delay, before Benny remembers that's supposed to be his name, and he grunts. “A truck.”

Victor laughs. He fucking _laughs_. Raucous and joyful, cheerful and homey like a damn kettle whistle. “I like you, friend.”

“Oh.” Benny doesn't know how to respond. Nobody's ever said that to him before.

“Even if you are a bit of a rascal.” The Securitron screen flickers and the cowboy picture changes—one eye winks, just for a second—then it flickers again and he's back to normal.

Benny swallows what feels like a brick. It knows who he is? No, maybe not. Hopefully not. “What?”

“Well, they don't put you in handcuffs and give you a free ride to the prison for singin' in the church choir.”

This time it's Benny who laughs, but it's a sharp, brittle sound that could peel paint instead of something warm and bubbly. “You got that right, pa—“ he stumbles over _pally_ , “—partner.”

He looks ahead, trying to guess how much farther it is to town. He feels like he's about to fall over, like his legs are made of lead. Abruptly, he remembers the Fat Man, and wonders how many rads he took from the blast.

Shit, if he's got radiation poisoning now, it'll be expensive to cure. He wonders what the doctor will expect in exchange.

“Don't you worry none about bein' turned in, friend,” Victor continues. “Can't imagine prison'd be any worse than what you've already been through. You'll be safe as houses in Goodsprings, so long as you mind your manners.”

He gives a kind of mumble of acknowledgment, not quite sure what to think.

“Yes, sir, you behave yourself and Sunny'll see it's kept all hush-hush. Maybe even find you a job in town, 'til you get back on your feet. You look like you'd be a hard worker, once you've got somethin' to eat that'll stick to those ribs.”

Benny doesn't say anything to that. He might be mute with wonder. He's lived on the Strip, growing fat with excess; he's lived in a tribe out in the desert, scraping a life out of dead earth. Each scenario had their own rules of conduct, each with a set of expectations and code of honor.

But Goodsprings? _M_ _ind his manners. Behave himself. Work hard_. These are foreign ideas, somehow. So far from what he's used to that he doesn't know what to do with them. He sure as hell doesn't _deserve_ an offer of homespun hospitality.

It can't possibly be so simple. It all has to come falling in on him somehow. Victor will figure out who he is, or connect with House's network and rat him out. The barkeep at the saloon will recognize him. The NCR will storm the town with wanted posters and a tank. _Something._

“Afraid there ain't a hotel or nothin' like that, but if you like,” Victor says, drawing him out of his bleak thoughts, “you can bed down with me. Got me a shack outside town. Hardly use it, myself, spend most of my time ramblin' out of doors, but it's got all the fixins a fella down on his luck could need. A bed and such.”

“I—“ It'd be suspicious to turn it down. He _is_ down on his luck, he _does_ need somewhere to stay, and a real mattress sounds incredible. When's the last time he got to lie on one? Weeks ago. Realistically, he can't exactly _stay_ in Goodsprings, not with the odds of someone recognizing him; he should get moving again as soon as the doctor fixes him up. But he can't let on. “I haven't got anything to pay you with. For the bed.”

Victor laughs again. “Shoot, friend, I'll let you have it for a real bargain.”

“I can't afford a bargain.” Benny limps along with him, stumbling up to the top of a hill. At last the dim lights of Goodsprings come into view, winking in the twilight below them.  
  
“Heck, I was just kiddin' with you, partner. I'll let it go for free,” Victor says kindly. “Gets mighty lonely. I'd be glad for some good company. What'd you say?” 

A Securitron wants to be his buddy. His _roommate_. It's just crazy enough to make sense, given how things have been going lately. And he's got no real reason to say no—not one he can _share_ , anyway. It feels like walking into an elaborately laid, folksy trap. But what _can_ he say?

“Sure. Why not.”

He'll take advantage of the doctor, get some food in him, maybe crash for an hour provided it's safe enough. Then he'll be gone with the dawn, if he's got anything to say about it.

Hopefully, his luck will hold that long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _*whispers* Someone tell me not to write the adventures of Benny and Victor: Best Pals because I don't know if I can control myself if left to my own devices. "One's a cowboy robot, the other's a wannabe Rat Pack fink. THEY FIGHT CRIME."_


	8. ...heaven CAN...

Benny wakes up in the dark, screaming and trying to kick free of the Deathclaw. It takes him almost a full minute to remember that he's already survived that crisis. He's in Goodsprings, in a bed, and the only thing wrapped around his ankle is a corner of blanket.

Damn. And here he thought he'd just be having nightmares about the Legion for the rest of his life.

How long has he been asleep? Longer than he meant to be, he's sure. He meant to slip away like a thief in the night, as the saying goes, and give that old country doctor a chance to regret offering to settle up the bill later. (Is anybody really that naive? Honestly.) But he's not so stubborn or prideful that he can't tell he's in no shape to make it across the desert on his own, even now that he's been patched up a little and has a can of beans in him from the doctor's own kitchen—which is staying down, no less.

A knock comes at the door. Benny pulls the blanket up over himself. He's sleeping in his skin, which doesn't bother him any, but to tell the truth, he ain't too clear on what the rules are in a place like this. If somebody busts in on him, will they be offended? He doesn't get to find out, because the door stays closed.

“You all right in there, Jack?” It's Victor the friendly Securitron. Benny's still got no idea what to make of that, but he's still breathing, so he figures he can afford to work it out in his own time.

“I'm fine, Victor,” he says, remembering easy enough this time that Jack is what he answers to. His heart's working a little too hard for _fine—_ his body ain't quite caught up to the fact that nothing's trying to eat him—but he's close enough for robot cowboys.

“Thought I heard a bit of a ruckus out here,” says Victor. “Might could be I was wrong, though. These ol' audio-receptors ain't what they used to be, ever since my durn antenna broke off.”

That's a strange thing to say. The two systems have nothing to do with each other. But Benny's in the habit of not letting on that he has any knowledge or interest in the inner workings of a Securitron, so he doesn't comment.

“Everything's fine,” he repeats. “Didn't mean to disturb anybody.”

“Oh, don't you worry about that none! This here shack is nice and out of the way. You could holler and carry on like you was bein' murdered, and wouldn't nobody come runnin'.” There's a brief pause. “That mighta come out a tetch more threatenin' than I meant it to. Reckon I oughtta work on my people skills.”

“Oh, that's...that's okay?” He's not exactly in a position to tell the killer robot to watch its mouth.

“Well, don't let me keep you from your bed, partner. I reckon you still need to get your nap out.”

Yeah, sure. The way Benny's feeling, he ain't sure he'll ever be able to sleep again.

So of course he passes out the second the back of his head touches the mattress.

* * *

Benny emerges from Victor's shack well after dawn. He officially lets go of his plan to sneak out of town, at least for the time being.

He's had a scrub down in Victor's sink, and he's got a clean set of clothes. Victor left him a stack of 'em at the door, with a decent fitting pair of shoes, even. Might as well go all the way and hit the saloon for a meal. He'd kill for some real food.

It ain't hard to find, with PROSPECTOR SALOON spelled out in colorful, lit-up letters across the front. There's a weathered old chair by the front door, and a weathered old man in the chair. Easy Pete, the dynamite tosser. He cocks his head to the side and smiles when he sees Benny. It ain't exactly a friendly smile, as far as he can tell.

“Well, there you are,” says the old man. “Good to see you again.”

“Same to you, Pete,” Benny replies, cautiously.

“Well, you got a good memory for folks you only see at a distance in the dark of the night.” He leans back in his seat like he's said something significant. “Keep that memory sharp, boy. You'll be glad of it if you get to be my age.”

“Uh...sure.”

“Well, go on, then. Sunny's waitin' for ya.”

Okay. Benny ain't up to dealing with a crazy old man who's trying to be mysterious, so he heads on inside. He hears voices before he sees anybody, and follows the sound of conversation to the bar.

“Cheyenne likes him.” He recognizes Sunny's voice, even though she's not so cheerful now. More like obstinate. He feels like he might have walked in on an argument that's been going on for a while.

“Honey, you can't just adopt every stray you come across based on your _dog's_ opinion.” The other broad sounds a little older, a little worn down, and a lot more sensible than anybody else he's met in this town. It's almost a relief to find somebody who _doesn't_ want to take him in, no questions asked—which is totally unreasonable of him, he knows. It's just that, in his experience, when you get a whole group of people together and they're _all_ polite and helpful, they usually turn out to be cannibals.

“My dog's been right more often than you,” says Sunny.

“Well, your dog ain't much of a businesswoman! I'm not running a charity here.”

Benny rounds the corner into the bar area, and freezes up when he gets a look at the other broad. Shit. _Shit_! It's been so many months, he managed to _forget_ , but he's _been in_ this saloon, he's _talked_ to this woman. They stopped in for drinks while they were waiting for the courier to show up, and she harassed him into paying off his bar tab before he cleared out. He had to cover Jessup and McMurphy, too. It's part of the reason he cut ties with them—well, no, he would have done that anyway, but he was still steamed that they stuck him with the bill.

His big memory of Goodsprings is the scene in the graveyard with Pussycat. All the rest is just a dull stretch of waiting.

But who knows what Miss Bartender will remember?

“Jack!” Sunny lights up when she sees him, like he's an old friend. “Come in, sit down. You must be hungry. Trudy, can you get him something? Please?”

“What did I just say? Charity, not running one.” She glances at Benny. Then she hesitates, frowning, maybe confused. Is she suspicious?

“I think I'm in the wrong place,” he mumbles, and starts backing toward the door.

“Wait!” She flashes a meaningful look at Sunny, then turns back to him. “Just sit down. You can work it off by washing dishes.” She plunks a scrub brush down on the bar.

Except it ain't a scrub brush. It's been cut down, and the red dye is mostly rinsed out of the bighorner-hair bristles, but he knows the shape of the crest. And he can see the broken edges where it's been hacked away from its base.

It's from a Centurion's helmet.

And he can't think why a small town this far west of the river should have pieces of Legion armor lying around.

“Jack? Are you feeling all right?” Sunny tries to push him down onto one of the empty barstools. He backs away from her.

“I should be going.” It's awkward, and it's transparent, but he can't think what else to say.

Sunny follows his gaze, and Trudy does too, because he can't stop staring at the thing. He can't even be subtle about it. If he's landed in a town that's friendly to the Legion, he's done for. And if it's just the opposite and they killed the guy who owned that helmet, that still brings up the question of what he was doing all the way out here, and if he has any friends likely to follow.

“You've seen one of those before?” Sunny says gently, and when he keeps trying to slink back toward the door, takes him by the hand and asks in a hushed voice, “Are you on the run from the Legion?”

“No!”

They don't believe him, of course. _He_ wouldn't believe it if he heard a stranger yell out a too-quick denial like that. But Sunny squeezes his hand so tight it hurts, and gives him a painfully earnest look as she says, “It'll be all right. You're safe here. I swear.”

“God damn it, Sunny, how am I supposed to be a hard-ass if he actually needs help?” Trudy mutters. She turns away and starts fiddling with an electric hot plate, and before Benny knows what's what, the smell of squirrel stew is filling the room.

He eases back onto the barstool, because he can't make a break for the door without it turning into a whole _thing,_ not with the way Sunny's lookin' at him all tender and patting his hand. There are worse things than letting a pretty girl think he's in need of comfort. Or letting a pretty good lookin' lady bartender feed him, for that matter. So long as she don't recognize him, he'll suffer through somehow. Maybe he'll even get to take a quick tumble with one of 'em before he leaves town. It'd certainly do his morale some good.

Trudy drops an earthenware bowl on the counter in front of him, steam curling from the thick stew inside, and a dented but clean spoon. It's full almost to the top, and she drops a bit of bread beside it too. Fresh! It smells so good, so warm, so inviting, that his stomach aches. He ain't too clear on the exchange rate for manual labor to food in a small town, but he's gonna guess this'll set him back at least five sinks worth of dishes.

“Thanks,” he says, and his voice comes out rough, like it wants to break. He ain't about to cry into a bowl of stew, is he? For fuck's sake.

It's just because he's hungry, he tells himself. Get a man so emptied-out his ribs are meeting in the middle, and he's bound to be a little off-kilter. It ain't like this _means_ anything, except that now he's gonna live a little longer than, by all rights, he should have. He might feel a little gratitude, but he's still not there to make friends.

He'll stuff his face, do the minimum number of dishes required to square the bill, and then excuse himself to settle up with the doc. He'll be gone before sundown.

* * *

It took a long time for the Chairmen to learn to use silverware. Not that it's that hard, as far as just picking it up and using it goes, but it's an extra step in the process. When food was scarce—which it always was—they had to bolt down as much as they could, as quick as they could. Slowing down enough to use a spoon meant running the risk of losing out on the meal, if something bigger came along to chase 'em off.

In Vegas, Benny worked hard to master the art of eating like he ain't hungry. What they call “table manners.”

All that learning wants to go right out the window, but he uses the spoon like a civilized person instead of tipping the stew straight into his mouth or just diving in facefirst. He even manages not to lick the bowl clean when he's done, but he does use the bread to mop up the dregs.

Then, with his stomach really _full_ for the first time in what feels like forever, he hesitates on the verge of asking Trudy what she wants him to do. She's got her attention on a customer. He could probably slip away without her noticing.

But then Sunny looks up from scratching behind Cheyenne's ears, and smiles at him. There's no escaping her.

“All done, Jack? I think I could eat Trudy's squirrel stew every day of my life, it's that good. Want me to show you where the sink is?”

“Aw, hell,” Trudy says before he has a chance to answer. “There's no dishes to wash this time of the morning—at least, not enough to make it worthwhile. Come back after dark, when everybody's drunk. Then you'll have your work cut out for you.”

By dark, he'll be long gone. But he nods.

“I will. Thank you.” He feels like he should say something more, or maybe find something he can do to square the debt a little before he just runs off. But the whole situation is just too unfamiliar. He's never had anybody just _giving_ him things, and _trusting_ him. How's he supposed to react to something like this?

“I'd best be getting to work,” says Sunny. “Those wells ain't gonna patrol themselves. You're welcome to tag along, Jack, if you're feeling up to it. Be worth a few caps to me, just for the company, and I could throw in one of those extra guns we've got lying around. There's more than this town could ever need, ever since we ran off those Powder Gangers.”

“Guns?” She wants to give him a _weapon_ now?

“Sure. I can even give you a few pointers how to use it, if you like.”

“Don't you go getting my new dishwasher chewed up by geckos,” Trudy warns.

Benny almost laughs. He killed his first gecko with a fire-hardened spear before he was tall enough to see over its head, and he's been handling firearms almost as long as he's been hunting. He still finds it hard to believe that anybody could live to be his age without ever picking up those skills.

But they suspect he's a Legion slave, maybe even think he's been one for life. Outright lying about it would be too much effort for not enough reward, but he's willing to let 'em believe what they want. Who is he to tell them any different?

“I know a little,” he says, which ain't strictly speaking a _complete_ lie. He _does_ know a little. And a lot more besides.

“Well, good! Why don't you follow me out back, and I'll see if I can't find you a shotgun.”

Shotguns ain't what he's used to, but anything that spits hot lead will be good to have once he skips town. He follows her, past the bar and into a narrow hallway beyond, not bothering to hide it when his eyes dip down to her back pockets once he's out of Trudy's line of sight. So he's a sleaze, so what? He'll get his kicks where he can.

She leads him into a small room with a terminal and a floor safe. He makes a mental note to clean _that_ out if he gets the chance to do it without gettin' caught; might be a nice stash of caps in there. Sunny pops the back door open to let the sunlight in and Cheyenne bumps him toward it with her cold, wet nose.

There ain't much out behind the saloon, just some scrub and various junk. A few shattered sarsaparilla bottles, some boxes, a crooked wooden fence. Sunny takes a few paces off to the side of the building and cracks open a locked box snug up against the wall. She comes out with a shabby looking gun and a box of shells.

She hands them off to him. “I'm afraid it's nothing fancy, but it'll do against geckos.”

“If you say so.”

She's right, of course. The shotgun ain't pretty, but it should be more than a match for a gecko at the right range, and if he takes the time to clean and maintain it like its last owner obviously didn't, it'll work even better. It suits him just fine.

But he makes sure to hold it just slightly wrong, so she'll feel like she has something to teach him.

“Shotgun's a good starter weapon,” she says cheerfully as she turns him to face the row of bottles lined up along the fence. “Not too accurate, but if you blast something that gets up close enough to you, it won't be gettin' back up. Get set, now.” She makes him crouch down to steady himself “This thing kicks like a mule.” She puts her arms around him from behind, adjusting his grip on the gun. “Never seen a mule, myself, but the old timers talk about 'em sometimes. I think they all died out. If they could kick like a shotgun, I wouldn't want to stand behind one.”

He lets her guide his finger on the trigger, and straighten his posture some to brace the butt of the shotgun against his shoulder, because she's pressed up so close and smelling like well-oiled leather and the sunshine-citrus scent of Abraxo.

“This one's loaded with birdshot, so it's going to scatter.” Benny turns his head when she puts her cheek next to his while she points down the barrel of the gun. “It might take a couple of tries to knock down all the bottles, but you'll get 'em.”

Sunny straightens up and steps beside him with her hand on his shoulder. He sways slightly when she goes, not realizing he'd started to lean into her body. Benny tries to force himself not to be distracted, but it's no use to tell himself not to think about the breasts that are now at eye level. Tell a guy not to think about pink radscorpions and what's he gonna do? Think about nothing but pink goddamn radscorpions.

He shakes himself and looks down the barrel of the shotgun. _Focus, Benny-boy_.

Okay, he wants to think about pink radscorpions? Pink radscorpions it is. _Not tits._

He's back on the hunt, a lonely tribal, stalking the rare and elusive pink radscorpion known in legend as...Bubblegum. Yeah, sure, Bubblegum. Why the fuck not? There's no cute girl by his side, certainly not one who smells like Maria's holster when it was brand-new, all he's got is his trusty pump-action boomstick. Not his weapon of choice, but he can use it well enough. Better than well enough, he's a fearsome hunter, warrior of the wastes, and he is one with his weapon. He aims true, seeing not bottles before him but the fearsome pink radscorp, blissfully unaware of its impending demise and future as both dinner and conversation piece over the Boot Rider campfire.

He pulls the trigger. The deafening blast comes with a recoil that punches him like a prizefighter square in the shoulder. His crouch ain't too steady, so it knocks him back and sideways, right into Sunny's legs. Sends them both toppling into the dirt. He lands flat on his ass, she falls forward on her hands and knees, slamming an elbow into his thigh as she goes down. After a moment of lying on his back in the dirt, he leans up on his arms and takes a look at her. She's forcing herself up off him with a mix of surprise and growing amusement in her eyes.

“Told you it had a kick,” she says with an easy laugh as she rocks back on her knees. She briskly rubs her fingers on her thighs to get the sand off 'em and offers him a clean hand up.

Benny laughs a little, too, mostly out of embarrassment. The same thing happened the first time he fired a shotgun, but that was when he was a skinny little kid no more than ten. He ain't that out of practice, is he?

“I can do better than that,” he says as she hauls him up.

“Sure you can,” she says brightly, dusting him off. And she ain't even being sarcastic. It takes some doing not to goggle at her for it. Where the hell did these people come from, with their down-home disarming manners and good natures? The fuckin' moon? He looks away from her so she won't see what his face is doin', focusing instead on the shotgun and fitting it back into his hands right. “Maybe you'll have more luck standing. Plant your feet.”

He does, dropping into a stance with them shoulder width apart. She gets snug up behind him to correct his posture where he's letting the gun droop. Got to give her something to do, right? And it's no hardship to have her pressed against his back with her hands over his.

Sunny guides his hands along the forestock and pumps it, once, to chamber a new round. It ain't exactly difficult to imagine what that particular action mirrors. Guns are pretty fucking phallic as it is, even without the pump-action, but there's something _extra_ about her bein' draped over his back, with her hot breath on his neck while she fondles it. But if she means it as a come-on, she doesn't let on.

The next shot doesn't knock him off his feet, and he actually hits a sarsaparilla bottle on the far side of the fence. It explodes in a starburst of brown glass, shards landing in the dirt where they sparkle in the sunshine. He chambers the next two rounds himself, compensates for the birdshot scatter and blows the other four bottles into pieces.

She cheers and claps him on the shoulder. “Look at that! I'd say you've got a knack for this.”

Benny tries to look modest, but he doesn't have much practice at it, so he probably seems more stupid than humble when he murmurs, “I guess so.”

“Well, let's get to it, then.” She steps around him and goes back to the box to retrieve some more shells. She hands them to him with an easy smile that lights up her whole face. “Now that we know you know what you're doing, it'll be a pleasure to have you watching my ass out there, Jack.”

“Well, it'd be a pleasure to watch.”

She laughs, gives a little roll of her eyes, but her cheeks pink like she's flattered. He gives her his most charming grin and forgets all about Pussycat for the time being. After all, Pussycat ain't here. Maybe he's got a shot with this dame.

“Not sure the missus would like the sound of that.”

Okay. The grin falters. Maybe not.

But Benny recovers, thumps his fist on his chest right over his heart like he's been struck with an arrow. “Oof. Married? You really know how to hurt a guy.”

“Not as much as she does,” she says with another laugh. “Don't let that unassuming barkeep act fool you, my Trudy's a crack shot. Speaking of, she'll put one through both of us if we aren't back in time for supper. So. Shall we?”


	9. ...ah, crap...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains plot points that may be squicky/triggery for some readers. As the advisories are spoilery, please check the end notes for further details.

Goodsprings has a pretty decent setup. Benny's never seen a place with so much drinkable water. The whole town could be rich, if they had the smarts to market the stuff to outsiders. Then again, drawing too much attention to their treasure would be sure to draw scavengers, and with nothing to defend the place but one hunter, a dog, a broken-down robot, and an old coot with a stash of dynamite, chances are the townspeople wouldn't last all that long. Sunny's good, but she ain't that good.

She moves up the hill, not quite with a tribal's ease, but quiet enough that he can tell she's had some practice. He follows along behind her. It's easier going than before, with the Deathclaw. Food and rest have made a hell of a difference already.

“See those geckos?” Sunny whispers, pointing down toward the nearest of the wells. Benny spotted 'em a while back, one adult and three little ones all hanging around close to the water, but he makes a point of looking around like he hasn't noticed yet. Maybe he’s overdoing the naive hick thing—he ain’t too good at judging—but she doesn’t seem to catch on if he is.

When he finally visibly zeroes in on the leathery things, he nods to her. “Yeah.”

“Think you can hit one?”

 _One_? His ego bristles before he can stop it, and he’s got to tamp it down. He can hit all four of ‘em, easy, but she doesn’t need to know that. Or, he thinks with rare truthfulness, it could be he can’t hit all four. But he maybe could, if he really wanted to, and had a proper gun, and the wind was right.

“I don’t know,” he says meekly. “Probably not from all the way up here.” He pats the barrel of his shotgun. “Birdshot scatters, remember? I might not hit anything at all.”

She gives him a grin as sunny as her name, and takes out a pocket knife that flicks open rustily. “Know anything about cut shells?”

He does; it’s a trick some tribals use for turning shot into slugs, eliminating the shotgun’s weakness at long range. It jams the gun and slows down reload time, but one shot from a cut shell is usually all it takes.

Benny’s only ever heard of tribals doing it, but apparently Sunny knows more of his people’s tricks than most of her kind. But it’s probably something he—that is, _Jack_ —shouldn’t.

“You cut the shell and it...goes farther?” he asks, like he’s trying to puzzle it out.

“Something like.” She gestures for him to hand over some of his ammo. He does, and she slides the blade into the red plastic casing along one side. She turns the shell over in her hands, carefully slicing all around it until the beginning of the slit she’s made almost touches the end. When she’s through, she hands it back, and gives him the knife, too. “When you’re through with the first couple of shots, load that up. Give it a try. Only watch where you aim it. I like my bits right where they are.”

Well, he’s got to admit, they’re nice bits. It’d be a shame to blow ‘em off.

Sunny moves forward a pace or two and starts down the slope of the hill, careful and quiet. Benny hangs back on purpose, but makes a point to make it look like it’s nerves, not a calculated decision.

It shouldn't be too hard to let Sunny get ahead of him sneaking down the hillside, and just slip away real quiet while her attention is on the geckos. It might not be the nicest way to repay her kindness, but at least she'll learn a valuable lesson about trusting strangers. Hell, he's practically doing her a favor.

Or not. Sunny whistles for the dog's attention, and makes some kind of hand signal in Benny's direction. Cheyenne trots over and plants herself at his elbow like she's planning to live there.

“What's that?” Benny whispers, imitating the hand sign with a little less success.

“'Guard,'” Sunny whispers back. “Don't worry, she'll see to it you make it through in one piece.”

“Shouldn't she be guarding _you_?”

“Nope. That's what you're here for.”

Right. Now Benny feels like the biggest crumb in the Mojave. How is it she's got him feeling guilty for shit he ain't even done yet? He gives the dog a scratch behind the ears and readies his shotgun. Why not? It's been years since he's had fresh gecko meat.

Sunny leads the way down the hill until they're both in range. She's good enough not to tip off the geckos, even if her boots do make some noise on the dirt. And it still ain't a hardship to tag along behind her. So she's got a lady-friend, so what? He can still look.

He's busy wondering if it's strictly dames, or if she goes both ways, when she takes her first shot and wounds the mama gecko in the side. It ain't enough of a wound to kill, but it gets the thing mad enough. All four of the critters come boiling up the hill, making right for them.

Benny fires into the group, knowing he's too far back to do any serious damage, but the birdshot pellets sting two of the babies hard enough that they abandon Sunny and come tearing after him.

Their teeth may be sharp as needles, but the little ones don't have a lot of strength in their jaws yet, so Benny kicks out a foot and lets one of them try to make a meal of his boot leather while he lines up his shot. One more pull of the trigger and he blows its head off.

Cheyenne knocks the other one to the ground and worries its throat open with her teeth. She is a good dog. He could get used to this.

Sunny, having to show off her footwork to keep out of range of two at one time, is a little slower to take hers out. Benny pumps a fresh shell into the chamber while she's still dancing, but he doesn't get a chance to come to her rescue. She gets herself a little breathing space and pours a couple of rounds into the last of the little ones. Now there's nothing left to worry about but the mother.

It hisses and rears back to strike, and Benny has to make the choice between helping her out or letting her take care of it herself. And, hell, he knows she can handle a gecko without him, she does it every day, but he won't score any points by sitting this one out.

At this angle, he can't just shoot the damn thing, not without hitting her, too. She's got her armor, but she still might not appreciate getting an arm full of birdshot. He could reload with the cut shell, but that takes more time than he wants to give it. Still, there's more to any weapon than just the business end, so he swings around and bashes at the gecko's skull with the butt of the shotgun.

In other days, he might have been able to knock it cold with a single blow. Now he just stuns it a little. It whips its head around, looking for the source of the new attack, and clamps its teeth down on the first thing it finds within range, which happens to be Benny's arm, just above the wrist.

This is what he gets for trying to impress a pretty girl! A full grown gecko's bite strength is nothing to sneeze at—he's seen 'em take limbs clean off. He's lucky this one is too dazed to bite down all the way.

Cursing at the top of his lungs, he wedges the shotgun's barrel in between its teeth, but he can't lever the jaws apart, and he can't get to the trigger while holding the gun in place one-handed.

“Don't move, Jack!” Sunny skids into position behind him. There's a blast from her rifle, and the gecko's teeth clamp down even harder.

Sunny shoots the gecko a few more times, and Cheyenne bites until her teeth finally penetrate the thick hide. Finally, it falls to the ground, twitching, leaving Benny cradling his mangled arm to his chest and still swearing a little under his breath.

“I am _so sorry_ ,” Sunny says, like it's somehow her fault he wasn't quick enough to keep out of reach of the gecko's jaws.

“I've had worse.” It ain't pretty to look at, but when he flexes his fingers, everything still works. “See, didn't even crack the bone.”

“Just the same, you'd better get over to see Doc Mitchell.” She runs her fingers over the torn skin, but it's bleeding too much for her to get a good idea what the damage is.

See a doctor about a gecko bite? He'd get laughed out of the tribe, if he still had a tribe to get laughed out of.

“Jack,” she insists when he doesn't turn and make tracks back to town. “You're _allowed_ to get healing around here. There's no reason for you to have to suffer.”

Right, she still thinks he's got the Legion mindset. Well, Benny has no objection to helping nature along with a stimpak or two. Scars may be a mark of honor for a tribal, but he has enough of those already.

“All right, I'll go,” he says with a little show of reluctance that makes her smile and pat him on the shoulder.

“You get yourself looked after. Tell Doc to put it on my tab.” She whistles again, and Cheyenne finally removes herself from his side and goes to stand by her mistress.

Benny heads back down the hill, tearing his ripped sleeve into strips as he goes. Sure, he could go see the doctor. Or he could wait until he's out of sight and then turn and cut across the desert toward Vegas. He needs to find out if he still has any friends left on the Strip. Then he can plan his next move.

He's winding the makeshift bandage around his wrist when Victor's, “Hello again, partner!” makes him want to jump out of his skin.

“Jesus fuckin' Christ,” he mutters to himself. Who needs friends on the Strip? Benny has all the friends he can handle in Goodsprings.

Victor rolls out from behind the cover of some rocks. Is this a coincidence or an ambush? He'll hope for a coincidence.

“What're you doing all the way out here?” Victor asks, sounding innocent. If this was a human being, Benny would say he doesn't suspect a thing.

“I was hunting geckos with Sunny,” Benny answers. “How about _you_ , friend?”

Instead of responding to that, Victor tilts forward to get a look at Benny's arm, like his advanced Securitron sensors somehow didn't pick up on anything until that second.

“Well, shootfire, you're bleedin'! We'd best get you to the doc, pronto!”

“Don't worry about it,” Benny protests. “Whatever you're doing out here, I'm sure it's more important than escorting me around town.”

“Ain't nothin' more important than lookin' out for your fellow man.”

“'Fellow man'?” Benny echoes.

“Well, in a manner of speakin'. Anyhow, I hate to go castin' any doubt on your sense of direction, but you do happen to be goin' the wrong way. Say, you wouldn't be tryin' to skip town, would you?”

Benny's heart stutters in his chest, but the Securitron still hasn't tried to blow any holes through him, so he keeps his cool.

“Walk away from all this friendly hospitality? How could I?” The way things are going, he'll never get a chance. He'll be stuck in Goodsprings for the rest of his life.

“Aw, you know I'm just joshin' with you.” Victor makes a wide turn that gets him pointed back toward town. With an inward sigh, Benny follows him. “Let me be the first to tell you, friend,” Victor natters cheerfully as he rolls down the path, with Benny at his side, “you don't want to be gettin' too far away just yet, 'cause Miz Trudy's fixin' up a good old-fashioned Deathclaw barbecue, and the whole town's invited. Them things is durn good eatin', or so they tell me.”

“Sounds good.” He’s got no intention of hanging around that long, but the part of him that’s gotten used to starvation appreciates how everyone in town wants to feed him, even if all he wants to do is run the other way. But if they’re having a barbecue, at least he knows he can sneak into the bar and make off with whatever food’s there without feelin’ too bad about it.

“Yes sir, that critter should be all cooked up by tomorrow night,” Victor says jovially, “so don’t you go thinkin’ of runnin’ out on us now.”

He forces a laugh, because that’s better than grabbing the Securitron by what passes for shoulders and begging it to tell him _what the hell it wants from him and why it won’t let him leave_.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He sounds calm. He hopes.

“Shucks, there I go again, scarin’ the tar out of you. I just can’t seem to keep my wheel out of my mouth around you, so to speak. Can’t rightly say why that should be.”

“I’m not scared,” Benny says, sounding, to his own ears, like he’s slipping over the edge of panic.

“Didn’t mean to cast aspersions. You’re just as brave as you can be, I’m sure, for a fella who’s made outta all that fragile flesh and bone. I never did understand how you folks could do _anything_ , you break so easy.”

Is that a threat? _Is it_? Benny gulps, loud enough for Victor to pick up on it.

“Feelin’ a little parched, friend?”

Benny grunts noncommittally, as the edge of town starts drifting into view. “I can make it from here.”

“Yes, you can.” Victor doesn’t stop rolling along by Benny’s side. Benny wonders if the robot is just trying playing dumb, or if it really can’t catch all the cues a human being would. He knows a standard Securitron can’t, but Victor’s got a non-standard personality. Like Yes-Man.

God, he misses Yes-Man. At least he knows _that_ passive-aggressive metal son of a bitch is on his side. Or maybe it’s safer just to say that Yes-Man can’t shoot him, but either way at least it’s something he can predict. If Benny ever gets to see that stupid robot again, he’ll kiss him, full on the monitor.

They pass some time in silence as they sidle into town—nerve-wracking minutes for Benny, companionable for Victor—before the Securitron pipes up, “You know, Jack...”

“What?” His voice is a lot steadier than it was just a few minutes earlier. What the fuck, he feels safer in Goodsprings? What is _happening_ to him?

“I know you’re new in town and all,” Victor says as they start up the slight hill for the doc’s house, “I just can’t seem to shake the feeling...”

“What feelin’?”

“That I’ve seen you someplace before.” The robot sounds...troubled, and Benny’s got to force his feet to keep moving ‘cause he doesn’t want to let on that he’s terrified by the revelation. “But I’ll be hornswaggled if I can put my finger on where. You got any ideas?”

Benny shakes his head, hard enough to rattle his brains. “Nope.”

“It’s gonna be a burr under my saddle ‘til I figure it out,” Victor continues. “Maybe you just got one of them faces, huh?”

“Maybe.” He’s never been so happy to be an ordinary-looking guy—at least by human standards. He’s not exactly sure what a robot looks for, to tell one person from the next. _People_ who don’t know him well tend not to look past his distinctive checkered coat (which he has to figure he’s not getting back from the NCR) but Victor must still have his face stored in his memory banks somewhere. He’s glad he hasn’t shaved. He hopes that’s changed him enough to gum up the facial recognition software. He hopes it isn’t just that Victor is as good a con man as he is, and knows how to play the long game.

“Well,” Victor says as he rolls to a stop at the doc’s doorstep. He knocks on it more gently than something his size ought to be able to, and there’s a shuffling from inside. “I’d best be moseyin’ along now. The doc’ll take good care of you.”

“Thanks,” Benny says without any real feeling behind it. The door creaks open to reveal Doc Mitchell in a pair of overalls with dirt stains on the knees and a pair of faded pink gardening gloves.

“See ya ‘round, Jack!” Victor calls, rocking backwards enough to turn around in the front yard. He ‘moseys’ on down the hill again, back toward the middle of town.

The doc takes him off Victor’s hands—claws—pincers?—with an exaggerated roll of his eyes at the state of Benny's arm.

“Been spending time with Sunny, have you?” He peels off his gloves and tucks ‘em into the chest pocket on his overalls.

“It was worth the trouble,” Benny answers. He's not lying. He's got a halfway decent weapon out of the deal. And having to hang around with that girl ain't exactly what he'd call torture. Better her than Victor, anyway.

“Sunny's a sweet kid all right,” the doc says as he guides Benny past the clutter at the front of the house, to the exam room at the end of the hall. He still remembers the way, of course. He also remembers how he still owes for last night's services.

“Just out of curiosity, is _everyone_ in this town so...” He can't even think what word to use. People just don't act like this, but he's sure he'll cause offense if he calls them stupid.

“Neighborly?” the doc suggests with a chuckle. “Not hardly. Leastaways, this never used to be a good place for a stranger to stop. Sit,” he says, pointing to the stretcher in the corner.

“Something wrong with the chair?”

“Only if you pass out from blood loss. I'm too old to be picking you up off the floor if you fall out of the chair.”

“I'm not going to—” Benny starts. Mitchell jabs a finger at the stretcher again, impatiently. Benny sits. “There. You want me to lie down, save some time?”

“This'll be fine.” He starts to unwrap Benny's bandage with a nod of approval. “I see you learned some doctoring back where you came from.”

“Not much more than this. Never had a doctor around, growing up, so we all learned to patch ourselves up.” The tribe did have a healer, but this doctor's book-trained. It's different. Besides, if he stays a little vague, he won't be contradicting Sunny and Trudy if they decide to share what they think they know. Sunny seems to think Doc Mitchell is a man to trust. He's the one holding on to the broken pieces of the handcuffs Benny arrived in, anyway.

“Well, this ain't so bad. Nothing busted up beyond repair.” He's in and out with a stimpak before he's done talking, and he follows up with a glass of water while Benny's skin is still drawing itself back together.

“So what happened?” Benny asks, after he takes a swig. “To make you all so neighborly, I mean.” That still ain't the word he'd use for it. He's never known folks to treat their neighbors like this.

“Well, you know Victor, poor fella. He's been living in this town longer than half the human beings, and there's still folks that don't trust him.”

“Oh,” Benny says neutrally.

“Must be lonesome living apart from his own kind, among folks who won't so much as give him the time of day. I reckon that's why he comes off so peculiar. So one day last fall, he took it upon himself to make a friend. Found her in the graveyard, shot through the head, so he brought her to me to fix her up.”

Benny barely controls a twitch. Of _course_ this is about her. Of course Pussycat changed their lives. That crazy broad _does things_ to people. Makes 'em take chances when they oughtta know better. Messes with their heads and turns their brains to mush. And here he was thinking that was just him.

“There was another stranger in town at the time, name of Ringo,” the doc continues. “Looking for protection from some Powder Gangers out for his blood. Which we refused. He was an outsider,” he says, like he needs to justify himself, even though refusing to fight some kind of raider gang for a stranger's sake is about the smartest thing Benny's heard since he got into town. “Trudy let him hide out in the gas station outside of town, but that was it. When those Powder Gangers came around threatening _us_ , you can bet we were ready to turn on him. And then the little lady came waltzing out of the sickroom with nothing but a pistol and a real bad headache and decided she was here to help, and before you could say “boo,” there we all were, standing shoulder to shoulder with her and the boy, doing our damnedest to blow them raiders to kingdom come.”

“She saved him.” And talked the townsfolk into helping her. That sure sounds like the courier he knows. But the doc shakes his head.

“They got him. After the dust settled, we found him shot through the head. Most folks don't come back from a thing like that. Do you know, he was the only one lost from our side. And that gal, she just stuck around long enough to see him buried, and then she walked away down south. She didn't say a word about it, but you could see it in her eyes—she figured his blood was on our hands, for leaving it too late.”

“Doesn't sound like it would have made much difference if you'd tried to help him sooner. Before she turned up, you'd have been one gun short. More of you might have ended up dead.”

“Well, that's as may be, but you can't fight the psychology of the thing. Treating the gal like one of our own brought our town nothing but good, and treating the boy like he didn't belong left folks feeling guilty and ashamed of theirselves, so a few of 'em figured on seeing the error of their ways. Bend your fingers.”

“Huh?” All this story time has made him just about forget what he's doing here in the doctor's house, but he obeys the order and flexes his hand slowly while Mitchell prods at the tendons. There's no pain, no lasting weakness, not even a visible scar. The gecko bite might as well never have happened.

“There ya are, good as new. Try to keep it that way.”

“What do I owe you?” Benny asks, hoping the doc will be willing to cash in Sunny's chips for it like she suggested. And for once, luck is with him.

“For this, nothing. Sunny keeps me supplied with as much meat as I know what to do with, and protects our water to boot. Gecko hunters' caps are no good here.” Before Benny can seize on his good fortune and make his escape, he adds, “Though it does seem to me you weren't a gecko hunter last night.”

“You might say I was a Deathclaw hunter,” Benny suggests hopefully.

“Much as I'm looking forward to Trudy's barbecue, I'd more likely say you was Deathclaw _bait_.”

Right. So he still owes for the broken wrist and the RadAway. He tries to think what he has to offer, but he doesn’t think a doctor will have much use for any of his skills. There aren’t even any dishes to wash this time.

“So...” Benny says, “what do I owe you for that, then?”

“Ordinarily, I’d say a handful of caps would be enough, but to look at you I’d reckon you haven’t got any.” The doc takes a step back to let Benny hop off the stretcher. After a thoughtful twitch of his mustache, he reaches into the front pocket of his overalls, retrieves the faded pink gloves, and slaps ‘em against Benny’s chest. “Know anything about gardening?”

Mitchell takes his hand away, and Benny fumbles to keep the gloves from falling. “No.”

“Well, son, strap in. You’re going to learn.”

The doc gestures to the doorway and starts out of the room, beckoning for Benny to follow. He limps down the narrow hallway, into the kitchen, where he stops long enough to pick up a wide brimmed straw hat and a pitcher of something that looks cool and inviting. The doc puts the hat on his own bald head, and Benny realizes it’s a pre-war lady’s bonnet, a cascade of yellow ribbons streaming down the back. Sure, the doc winds ‘em up and tucks ‘em out of the way, but still. He looks goofy. His head’s the wrong shape for it, and it clashes with his overalls, and yellow _definitely_ ain’t his color.

Benny can’t help himself. His face splits in a grin.

“Mood’s improved, eh?” Doc Mitchell says, eyeing him knowingly and adjusting his hat. “Good. You’re going to need that.”

After his hat’s in place, the doc picks up a clean glass and heads for the back door. Benny follows, and tries not to giggle when a ribbon escapes its bundle and trails after him.

“I’ve got me a garden out back. Nothing too fancy yet, but looking to expand. That’s where you come in.” The door opens at a touch, and sunlight streams into the gloomy house. “Nothing better for working a garden than a young fella with a good strong back.”

Okay, Benny thinks as they step outside. The doc wants him to move some dirt around? Rip up some scrub? No problem. It’ll be a picnic compared to everything else, even the gecko hunting. At least weeds ain’t likely to bite him.

The doc shows him to a wide, rectangular patch of dirt, cordoned off behind the house. Some of it’s already tilled and planted, but most of it ain’t.

“Well, Jack. There she is, best victory garden in town. Not that there’s much competition. Best get to it.” The doc takes a seat and pours himself a glass of liquid from the pitcher. “I’ll supervise, in case you need any pointers.”

Benny rolls up his sleeves, pulls on the gloves and drops to his knees in the dirt.

This is gonna be the easiest thing he’s ever done.

* * *

 

A couple of hours later, the back of his neck feels just about raw. The sun is merciless, even though it’s getting close to early evening. A man _might_ start to regret certain hasty judgments on another man’s silly hat. The doc looks comfortable enough, sitting in the shade with his glass of—what did he call it? Lemonade?

It’s unusual stuff, but refreshing, a strange combination of tart and sweet. Benny’s had two glasses of it, when he’s stopped to get his breath back. The doc ain’t interested in working him to _death,_ at least. Just, apparently, to the very edge of it. Who the hell knew that digging around in the dirt was this much work?

He has to stop to wipe the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his arm. And, having stopped, he doesn’t seem able to start back up again. It finally occurs to him that bodies have physical limits, and he has no idea where his are anymore. He knows what Benny-the-Chairman is capable of, but he’s not living in a goddamn hotel anymore. Whatever reserves of strength he keeps thinking he can rely on, they’re _gone_ , bled out of him in Caesar’s tent. The thought leaves him shaken.

“Doin’ all right over there, Jack?” There’s no brusqueness in the doc’s voice, no anger that he’s shirking, just what sounds like real concern. Goodsprings neighborliness.

“Fine,” Benny says, not because he _is_ , but because he _should_ be. He shouldn’t be reeling with exhaustion after an hour or two of work, most of it on his hands and knees. He used to walk twenty miles a day in the desert, hunting and killing and fighting, and still have energy left over at night. But here he is with all the muscles at the center of his chest screaming because they can’t do half the work they used to. Stretch, reach, dig, pull; odds are good he’s gonna collapse before he’s through.

Even so, and as much as his people have always looked down on what they used to call “dirt-grubbers,” he’s finding the work damn satisfying. He’s cleared up a patch of dirt about three by three already, digging out rocks and roots and weeds, mixing bighorner manure and compost into the sandy soil to make it richer, and there’s something about that square of earth that makes him...proud? He ain’t used to the feeling, but still, he’d like to finish what he’s started.

Benny shakes himself, and tries to remember that he’s more than a god damn farmer. It’s probably just the sun bakin’ his brain to a golden crisp. That’s gotta be what’s making this fuckin’ place feel so homey and peaceful. Or maybe it's the contrast between days of torture and everything horrible that followed, and a place with food, water, shelter and suckers who want to share ‘em with him.

“Jack.” The doc’s shadow comes between him and the sun, and a hand catches his arm, trying to pull him upwards. But Mitchell’s an old man, and he’s not too steady on his bum leg, so when Benny rises to his feet, it’s of his own free will.

It’s almost a relief to find _someone_ around here who can’t just pick him up and _put_ him where they want him to go. When he gets out of this pit trap, he’s never going near a robot again.

“You’ve done enough for now,” the doc says. “More than I can manage on my own, that’s for sure. Come, sit, have a rest. How long since you’ve eaten?”

“I ate this morning.” Which is starting to feel like a long time ago, but not as long as a week and a half. It seems foolish to complain.

Which ain’t to say he _won’t_ , just that he’d feel silly doing it.

The old man leans on him a little as they walk to the overhang attached to the house. It takes a second to find the word for it— _porch_. That’s right. Old folks always sit on a back porch, or sometimes a front one. There’s songs about that sort of thing, with wicker swings and how the night birds sing. All kinds of sentimental crap like that.

Benny’s never known too many real old people—not a lot of tribals make it to the ripe age of forty or much past it—but he’s known plenty with broken bones that healed crooked, and torn muscles that never worked again exactly like they should. Supporting a man with a limp ain’t as foreign to him as most of the other things that seem to be expected around this place.

The doc sinks into the nearest chair with a happy-sounding sigh. Benny takes the other one, because he’s a little wobbly and different parts of him keep trying to lock up without warning. He’s been stretching himself in ways he’s never done before, using muscles in his back he never even knew he had.

The doc offers him a bowl of fruit—both kinds of mutfruit, and a couple of other things he’s never seen before. Benny hesitates to take any of it. This ain’t the same as sharing a drink. It’ll be just one more debt he’ll have to work off, and the more these people are expecting from him, the harder it’ll be to slip out of town clean and quiet— _if_ he ever even gets the chance.

“If you’re worried about a charge, don’t be. Consider it medicinal,” the doc says, still holding out the bowl, with a stubborn set to his mouth that leaves no room for argument. “We agreed. Your work in the garden, in exchange for my work as a doctor—that makes you my patient. Now, let me do my job and keep you alive.”

Benny opens his mouth to argue. What he wants to say, he ain’t quite sure. It’s more a reflex than anything else. He damn well doesn’t _want_ to be humbled enough to accept the offer, even if he needs to. Maybe he ain’t got his strength up enough to do manual labor, but he’s got enough to feel stubborn.

“Son, we all got our pride, but do me the courtesy of treating me like I’m not a damn fool.” The doc glances down at Benny’s middle, then the bowl of fruit, and then back up to a face that must betray hunger.

Benny flashes on the night before. The doc, handing him a can of beans. Him tearing into it with no thought for table manners, first impressions or dignity. Eating like a starving man. Because he _was_ a starving man.

He takes a piece of fruit.

“Now.” The doc sets the bowl down and leans back in his chair. “When’s the last time you got a decent three squares a day?”

“A week and a half,” he says after a moment’s hesitation. “Maybe a little more.” He’s not sure, exactly, but he’s got a rough idea. A couple days unconscious in NCR custody, and the one he was awake to remember. Add that on top of ten or eleven of the Legion waiting for him to break down and beg for mercy. One of the Legionaries offered to cut his throat near the end, which he’s pretty sure was meant as a sign of respect. He _didn’t_ break. At least he had that to cling to.

“And before that? I ain’t prying into your personal affairs, mind. I just want a sense of what medical issues might come up.”

“Nothing worth mentioning.” Health and prosperity, but he doesn’t feel like explaining just how _much_ prosperity he’s had. He doesn’t want anyone connecting him to the Strip, which is the _only_ place around here a man can get as fat and rich as he’s been. He bites into his piece of fruit, hoping that the doc will accept what information he’s willing to give, and not ask for more.

“Fatigue is normal. Muscle cramps, dizziness, confusion, all manner of things. The brain’ll steal everything the body has to offer if that’s the only way to keep itself going. It takes some time for the body to catch on that it can start taking something back for itself.” The doc settles back a little more in his chair. “Suppose they kept you hydrated enough, did they?”

Benny wipes some juice off his face and gives a small nod before realizing he didn’t mean to give away that much. The doc is just so damn disarming.

“Well, that’s better‘n I expected for the Legion.” Doc Mitchell rubs his chin with the pad of his thumb, thoughtful-like, and looks at Benny askance. “You stick around town awhile, keep eating regular, and you’ll be back in top form before too long. Week or two at most, I’d say. I’m willing to keep you up to your elbows in lemonade if you want to come back in the meantime, do a bit more in the garden.”

“Thanks for the offer,” Benny says tiredly, “but I don’t think I’ll be around very long.”

“S’all right. A man’s got to do what he’s got to do, I reckon. But if you ever happen back this way, ‘round about harvest time, drop by. I’ll have more vegetables than I’ll know what to do with. Only fitting you should get some after all the work.”

“I...” He doesn’t know what to say. He’s still trying to work out why the thought of coming back makes him feel _nice_ , against all common sense, when he suddenly tracks on what the doc just said about the Legion.

“How’d you know it was the Legion?” Benny asks, feeling stupid even as he says it.

“I guessed. You just confirmed it. Word of advice, young fella? Don’t try your hand at poker.”

That might be the worst anyone’s insulted him in a while, but Benny keeps his mouth shut. Normal Wastelanders, he reminds himself, don’t get touchy about their skill at cards. Most of them probably don’t even know what poker is.

“You won’t find any Legion sympathizers here,” the doc assures him. “We’re right where the border used to be, before the NCR chased them back across the river. Too may of these folks have watched their kin put into collars and dragged away. I ain’t saying this to sway your mind to anything you don’t want to do. I just think a man makes better decisions when he knows the lay of the land.”

“I hope the NCR keeps you safe,” Benny says. And he does mean that. He doesn’t wish any harm on these people, and the NCR is their best bet for surviving what he knows is already on its way. But that doesn’t mean he, personally, wants to stick around and raise a salute to the two-headed bear.

“They usually do,” says the doc, with a little shrug that says he knows Benny rolled into town with NCR handcuffs on his wrists, but it just doesn’t seem that important to him.

It’s important to Benny. He shakes his head.

“I’ll see you around, Doc.”

Mitchell offers the bowl of fruit again.

“Take some more for the road. That one you got, it’s called a pear.”

“Pair of what?”

“I didn’t think to ask.” He keeps holding out the bowl until Benny takes another pear, to be polite. “They grow ‘em up in Oregon.”

Which means NCR. Which means...Benny doesn’t even know anymore. Maybe it’s a warning about who this town chooses to do business with. Maybe it’s simple conversation.

“Thanks,” he says, a safe, standard response. “I should be going.”

“Hope you don’t mind if I let you find your own way back.”

Mind? It’s the best idea he’s heard in days.

He walks around the side of the house and back toward the road, expecting at any moment to hear Victor’s tire tread rolling across the dirt. But instead, what he gets is a bark and a friendly exclamation of, “Hey, Jack!”

Off the doc’s hands and back into Sunny’s. Their timing couldn’t be better if they planned it, but unless every person in town is a hell of an actor, this all has to be coming off naturally.

“I’m glad your hand came through all right,” she says, linking her arm through his. Cheyenne butts up against his other side until he gives her a pat on the neck. “I thought it would, but you can never be too careful. Those damn geckos are a menace.” She steers him down the road toward Victor’s shack, like she can’t imagine why he’d want to go anywhere else. “Can’t complain about the meat, though. Victor should have a cooler you can use to keep your share in.”

“Really?” He’d just assumed that, since he didn’t finish the hunt, she wouldn’t feel the need to share the spoils.

“He did have a human friend living with him, originally,” she says, misunderstanding his confusion. “The friend died years ago, but he left all his necessities behind. There’s even a bathtub, if you want a soak—probably a good idea, if Doc Mitchell’s been making you weed his cabbages. I helped him out once, and the next day I could barely stand up.” They stop at the front door, and wait a few awkward seconds until he realizes she’s waiting for him to open it, because she’s thinking of it as _his_ place.

He does, and she follows him inside, swinging her game bag down from her shoulder. He watches as she lays out a truly surprising amount of meat that he can only assume is his share. It’s enough to last him clear into Idaho. Farther, if there’s good foraging along the way.

Not that he has any pressing reason to go to Idaho, except that no one there wants to kill him yet.

“You know how to cook it, right?”

“Sure.” What a silly thing to ask. Doesn’t everybody know how to stick a slab of meat in a fire until it stops bleeding? Maybe she figures the Legion eats everything raw. And sure, Benny ain’t a gourmet or anything like that, but he knows enough to keep from starving.

“Good.” Sunny says as she arranges the last of the meat—some haunches and a couple racks of ribs. Cheyenne puts a paw up on the table and sniffs at it, but Sunny _boops_ her nose with a finger and then points at the floor. The old girl drops down on all fours again, pants and turns the puppy eyes on full force. “Not going to work, Cheyenne.”

Cheyenne’s tail stops wagging and droops. She looks properly chastised...until she decides to try the same tactic on Benny, all big brown eyes and throaty whines. He stifles a chuckle and says sternly, “You heard the lady.”

The dog slinks off toward the door and flops on her belly, looking forlorn.

“Don’t buy it.” Sunny grins as she pulls the drawstring on her sack and slings it back over her shoulder, “She ate most of two geckos already.”

Benny laughs outright at that, and looks at Cheyenne and her long face accusingly. “Two? You hustler.”

She yips at him, not admitting to anything, and he grins at her mournful expression—and wonders just exactly when and how he turned into a dog lover. He wouldn’t mind having something like Cheyenne by his side out there, for companionship, and protection.

“If you have any trouble with Victor’s hot plate, you can come on over and use Trudy’s,” Sunny offers. “I don’t know how much of this stuff is still in working order. That goes for the bathtub, too. All the houses in town are fixed for plumbing, but you might have some trouble with your water heater.”

“Water _heater_?” He abandons any thought of running away, at least for the next couple of hours. If he can have a hot bath, he’ll stay as long as he needs to.

He tells himself it’s a tactical decision. He’s already one long ache from his neck to his toes, and if he doesn’t do something about it now, he might not be able to _walk_ in the morning. But a long, hot soak in the tub should be just the thing. Besides, he’s covered in days worth of sweat and grime, even under his clean-ish clothes. Washing at the sink only takes off the top layer.

Sunny heads for the door, clucks her tongue to get Cheyenne standing at attention. “It should kick on by itself, but if it doesn’t, there’s always a kettle and the hot plate. Might take awhile to fill up the tub, but if the doc worked you like he’s worked me before, you’ll want to make the effort. I’ll leave you to it. C’mon, Cheyenne.”

With a creak and slam of the shack door, they’re gone.

Benny glances toward the back of the shack, where there’s some kind of divider that doesn’t quite do its job. He makes his way over and finds the tub nestled off in the corner beyond it beside a broken down toilet that’s definitely seen better days. The tub’s got rings inside it, and some dusty corners, but for the most part it looks all right.

After stripping off his shirt and pants, Benny leans over to sweep the worst of the cobwebs away.

He makes a rickety old man kind of noise when a muscle in his back catches and hangs on the way down. It leaves him stooped over in pain, trying to straighten up again.

When he can’t quite manage, he drops to his knees and cranks on the water. Fuck it, he’ll bathe with the cobwebs. Who cares?

The water comes in stuttering spurts, tinged with rust, but it’s warm to the touch, and that’s all that matters. The water heater is working. He hauls himself over the edge and lets himself down in a controlled fall while it’s still running. He lets the water slosh up over the spot at the small of his back where the muscles have seized up, even though it’s not hot enough to make a dent yet. The tub ain’t quite big enough to really stretch out all the way, but he can fit well enough with his knees bent.

Benny’s up to his ankles in lukewarm water by the time the tap runs truly _hot._ Hot enough to steam. Hot enough to turn his skin bright red. And then _..._ ohhhh, good fucking god. He sinks into the water more, really squishing down until it reaches his armpits. To his sore muscles, it feels better than anything. Better than whiskey after a long day, better than cigarettes after weeks without ‘em...maybe not as good as sex, but pretty close to it.

He finds a position that doesn’t hurt _at all_ , and then he just melts into it. He’d swear that’s the literal truth. He just barely finds it in him to kick a foot up and turn the water off, and then he leans his head back and just becomes a puddle. He could stay here all day, gently floating, wrapped in his cloud of steam. He closes his eyes, savoring the heat and the peace and quiet.

He’ll find some soap in a minute, when he’s ready to move. But for now, he’ll just breathe. Just relax, and drift, and breathe. When the tightness in his back starts to loosen up enough for pain to stop taking up quite so much space in his head, he lets his mind wander.

What a fuckin’ day.

He thinks about squirrel stew, all thick and rich, with steam curling off it like cigarette smoke. He thinks about angry geckos and their needle teeth. About dirt up to his wrist and kindly country doctors. About Sunny’s back pockets and the way they curve over her body.

And yeah, eventually his thoughts turn to Pussycat. Probably finding the truck all torn up. Hopefully worried and searching for him. Hopefully real glad to see him again, when he breezes into her life when she least expects it. Hopefully so grateful, so happy, that she’ll leap into his arms, bury her fingers in his hair. She’ll smell like cactus flowers and sand, motor oil, hot buttery waffles, sock garters— _glg_

Benny comes to with a snout full of cold water, gulping a mouthful that goes straight to his lungs, flailing and splashing and coughing.

 _Well, that’s fucking new!_ he thinks as he manages to catch hold of the edge of the bathtub and pull himself upright. The universe has never tried to _drown_ him before.

Disoriented, still choking on his own bathwater, he reaches out into the darkness for something solid to grab onto so he can drag himself out of the tub without his feet going out from under him.

He gives himself a shake as he draws his first solid breath. _Dark_ room. _Cold_ water. What time is it? Did he _fall asleep_?

There’s a knock on the door. Is that was startled him enough to jerk in his sleep and nearly drown? “Jack?”

Oh, shit. It’s Sunny. And he’s naked. Modesty ain’t a problem for Benny-the-Shameless-Tribal, but Jack-the-Meek-Fugitive probably wouldn’t be comfortable swinging his goodies in front of a near-stranger’s face.

“Hang on a minute!”

His bare feet touch the floor, and he fumbles around in the dark looking for his clothes. And can’t find them. There are candles in the shack, and an electric lamp, but hell if he’ll be able to find them, either. He’s still dripping wet and starting to shiver in the chill of late evening—how many hours has he lost?—so he creeps his way to the bed, finds a blanket, and wraps it around himself.

“Are you all right in there?” She has the door open before he can answer. Between the moonlight and the distant glow of the human-made lights in town, he can see her blush when she looks at him. He glances down to make sure there’s nothing showing, but unless she has a problem with bare knees, he’s covered.

“Sorry—” he starts, but she shakes her head at him.

“No, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to bust in on you. Just—I was kind of worried when you didn’t answer...Were you still in the bath?” she asks, with a glance at his wet hair.

“I didn’t mean to relax _that_ much.” He starts to shrug, almost loses control of the blanket, and has to clutch it tighter to avoid giving her an eyeful of what she doesn’t want to see.

“You passed out in the tub? Poor Jack, you _are_ tired.” She starts to edge backward, pulling the door shut behind her. “Go to bed. I’ll tell Trudy you can’t come tonight. We’ll see you in the morning. Bye!”

And she’s gone, leaving him in the dark again, but with a slightly better idea where the lamp is. And his clothes. Not that he can grab ‘em and run out into the night right away. It might be dark, but if it’s still early enough for Sunny to be out and about, it’s likely somebody will see him making a break for it.

After struggling some with the blanket that’s started to tangle around his ankles, he sits on the bed to collect his thoughts. He can wait a little while for the whole town to go to sleep. Victor is still a problem, but if he can avoid the robot, it’ll be a good time to finally get out of town. He can gather his clothes, his shotgun, and his gecko meat, fill some old liquor bottles with water at the sink, and he’ll be set. He’ll just…have to wait. He can do that. Sure, he’ll be bored to tears, sitting here in the dark for awhile, but he can do it.

After a minute, Benny feels himself slouching, then drooping, finally tilting. He tries to fight it, but hell, it ain’t like there’s anything else to do.

He’ll just stretch out on the bed, take some time to think things through.

He blinks, and finds himself lying flat on his face with a puddle of drool sticking his cheek to the mattress. He doesn’t want to sleep. He refuses to sleep.

Maybe he’ll just rest his eyes a little longer.

* * *

 

The next time he wakes up, he ain’t drowning—which is not something he ever thought he’d have reason to feel thankful for, but here we are.

There’s faint light leaking in through some of the wood slats covering what used to be windows. It’s the kind of pre-dawn soft-dark that only outlines things, makes a few dust motes visible if you really squint. He pegs it as being around five or so in the morning.

Perfect. Everyone will be asleep. He can finally get out of this palsy-walsy hell hole. Benny shuffles out from under the blanket and tries to sit up, but his whole body acts like a rusty hinge. Nothing wants to move; his joints lock up, his muscles feel like they want to tear. He collapses back onto the bed after a token struggle. Fuuuuck.

He takes a few deep breaths, really forcing his lungs to expand as far as they’ll go, and braces himself. Benny heaves himself up into a seated position against his body’s _firmly_ expressed wishes. Oh, Jesus, he’s going to limp the whole way to Vegas. Maybe, a little pained voice whispers, he should stay another night?

But no. _No._ He’s already stayed longer than he meant to. He’s starting to think Goodsprings is some kind of supernatural desert monster. It wants its hooks in him, wants to keep him here and eat him up. Fuck that shit, he’s not going to stand for it.

He gets to his feet on wobbly legs and realizes he might not stand for much else, either. Agh.

After a few shuffling steps, he finds his clothes and tugs them on. Dressed, he feels better, but not much. And he still has to manage the boots. Bend over, and stay bent, if he expects to get them tied.

 _Give up_ , Goodsprings whispers again, and he grimaces and jams his feet into his boots and somehow finds a way to contort himself enough to knot the laces. They’re good boots. They’ll carry him as far as he needs to go.

He gathers up all the meat that Sunny’s left him. It’s more than he could justify walking around with if he _wasn’t_ setting out on a long trip, but if he’s spotted with it, he can always say he wants to cook it outside of town, where a campfire won’t be a hazard. Victor does have a hot plate, but in all honesty Benny doesn’t know how to use it. The Boot Riders cooked over open flames. The Chairmen have a fully staffed modern kitchen that their leader never had a need to use.

It takes a few minutes longer than it should to get everything of use squared away and ready for the journey—gun, water, any scrap worth trading—but even with his soreness slowing him down, the sun still ain’t up by the time he finishes.

At the door, he stops and listens hard for anything outside. Footsteps, a mechanical whirr from Victor’s chassis, a friendly bark. Nothing but silence greets his ears.

Benny pops the door open a crack and puts his eye to the opening. Victor’s nowhere to be seen, and neither is anything else. All right! So far, so good.

He doesn’t run. Running would be undignified, even if he was capable of it. But he moves out with as much purpose as he can put into his stride.

After a moment’s consideration, he heads for town, but is careful to stay to the outskirts as much as possible. It’s a little risky to stay so close, but not as much as cutting straight across Goodsprings; besides, if he takes the _real_ long way around to head north, he’ll still be in the area past noon. If anyone comes looking for him, they’re liable to find him. Better to take a dicey shortcut and get the hell out of sight before anyone’s out of bed than take the safer option and _definitely_ get caught by a certain nosy Securitron who’s taken an interest in him.

The faint glow of sunlight starts to spill into the sky as he makes his way, but sunrise won’t be in full force until he’s north of the doc’s house, heading toward Vegas. Well, that’s where he’ll be if he can pick up the pace a hair, anyway.

If he goes this way, he’ll cut past the cemetery. His steps falter, but he doesn’t let himself stop. It’s just a place.

He wonders if his cigarette butts are still scattered around the open grave. Pussycat threw a handful of them at his feet, at the Tops, but he’d be surprised if she picked up all of them. He smoked a _lot_ , waiting around that night. If he was the sentimental type, he’d go pick one up himself so he could repeat her dramatic performance when he squeaks out of the woodwork to surprise her. But he ain’t the sentimental type.

Although...maybe she left something behind when she crawled out of that grave?

Eh, better not gamble on the temptation. Benny ain’t too good at resisting ‘em. He alters his course, away from the graveyard and closer to town.

And around the corner of the nearest house comes a man. A stranger, as far as Benny knows, but a Goodsprings citizen probably just as obnoxiously kind and helpful as any of the others. Out for a stroll, looks like. Benny casts his eyes around for somewhere to hide, but there’s nowhere to duck safely where he won’t be seen.

So...what? What can he do? Hit him over the head with his gun and hobble for the hills? No, that’s what _Benny_ would do, and it’d raise the alarm when the guy came to or was found. Then the whole town would feel obligated to find him, and not out of neighborly concern.

What would _Jack_ do? A guy with nothing to hide and nothing to fear from these good folks and nowhere to be?

Smile and say hello?

The stranger stops short, staring at Benny with more sensible anxiety than anyone else in town has shown. Benny decides he _likes_ this one. He can understand a healthy distrust of strangers. He can respect it.

But he doesn’t want to raise any suspicions, so he tries a smile. And a wave. People in small towns wave at each other, don’t they?

“Hi. Good morning.”

The stranger ain’t buying it. His eyes rake from Benny’s boots to the top of his head, and then to the bundle hanging off him. His mouth pinches itself down into a wary frown. “Morning.”

Oh, crap, now what? How do you make conversation? _How the fuck do you make folksy conversation_?

“It’s a real good...uh...” _You already said good morning, you moron, think of something else to say._ “Good weather today, huh?”

_Oh yeah, great, good job, Benny. Talk about the weather. He’ll never suspect a fuckin’ thing._

The guy ignores his pathetic attempt at interaction and eyes Benny’s bag. He gets the distinct impression the stranger assumes it’s full of stolen goods. “You new in town?”

“Sure am,” Benny says with a barely noticeable hint of desperation. But fuck it, if the robot can come off as harmless and friendly, he can too. Right? “I’m Jack.”

Benny offers his free hand against the backdrop of a gradually lightening sky. The stranger stares at it for a long moment, and then gets close enough to take it.

“Chet,” he says, dragging his eyes up from where their hands join to Benny’s face. “You must be that guy Sunny rescued—“

Something happens while they’re shaking hands. Chet’s brows crinkle up, his eyes squint in the faint morning light, and his grip tightens. Worst of all, recognition drops into his eyes.

“You’re that city boy!”

“Wh-ha-hat?” Benny says with an unconvincing laugh.

“You’re him, I _remember_ you! The city boy in the stupid coat!” He drags Benny closer to him, with his soft cap-counter’s hands, a grip Benny could break out of without even thinking about it.

He could take out this Chet quick and quiet, this early in the morning when there’s no one around to see. He _should_ , for the insult to his wardrobe. A blow to the windpipe, to keep him from crying out. Knock him over the head—he might have to hit him a few more times than if he was at his best, but he ain’t in such bad shape that he can’t take care of this weasel-faced lightweight. He feels better just thinking about it.

But that _would_ get the townsfolk out after him.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” Benny says, and lets the man keep hold of him. Chet’s expression doesn’t change.

“Oh, we’ve met, all right. You and your Great Khan friends. They looted my store!”

Oh, now he remembers. Well, they didn’t loot it _much_. Didn’t even break anything, which for Khans is showing a lot of restraint.

“Trudy said everyone was helping out some poor escaped Legion slave. That supposed to be you?” He gives a little shake of his head and clucks his tongue. “ _Shame_ on you.”

“Okay, now look—” Benny glances around, reconsiders knocking Chet out and once again discards the idea. The whole town will be out for blood if he does. “Not that I’m admitting anything, ‘cause I’m not, but—”

“You tryin’ to buy my silence, ‘Jack’? Lemme tell ya, you can’t afford it.”

“Damn right I can’t afford it! I _did_ just escape the Legion.” He doesn’t expect any sympathy for it, but he may as well lead with the truth. “You think you can get anything out of me? I’ve got nothing left. And if you think you might know something about what I was doing before they got their hands on me, well, you can tell your neighbors all about it, but it’ll hurt their feelings a lot more than it hurts mine.”

“Yeah, see, here’s the thing.” A look comes over Chet’s features that Benny knows far too well ‘cause he’s spent most of his life wearing it. It’s the _opportunist’s smirk. “_ This town’s _real_ fond of that courier. You know, the one you put some bullets in? The one you left for dead?”

Uh oh.

“Maybe they won’t be too mad about somebody taking advantage of their hospitality, but they’ll sure mind that it’s _you._ ”

“Oh, please,” he says derisively, trying not to sound like his mouth is bone dry. “Pussycat and I patched things up months ago. Track her down and ask her, if you want.” This is all starting to feel familiar. He hopes Chet doesn’t think to ask if he knows her goddamn name.

“Sure.” Chet is unaffected, and that sure as hell don’t bode well. “But I ran into Victor today, and he said the new fella in town sure was antsy around Securitrons for some reason he couldn’t ‘reckon.’ ‘Nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs,’ is what he said.”

“Victor knows everything.” Maybe. He still can’t decide. But he refuses to let Chet have any advantage.

“Nah, his receptors don’t work so well out here. All the hills and such, you know. And that was _before_ he lost his antenna.”

Oh. He thinks back to when Sunny, Easy Pete and Victor found him— _SYSTEM ERROR SERVER UNAVAILABLE—_ and realizes. That’s why Victor can’t connect his name to his face. Something out here is interfering with his connection to House, or House’s connection to him, and his antenna’s busted up besides.

Does that mean Victor has been sincere all this time? Great, he has a robot buddy. Which doesn’t solve his current problem.

“What do you want from me, Chet? Just spit it out. I’m fuckin’ tired.”

“You can _start_ by payin’ me back for everything your Khan friends stole.” Chet finally releases his hand and steps back.

“Yeah, and with what caps?”

“Well, you can work, can’t you?”

Oh, of _fucking course_. He’s a dishwasher, he’s a gardener, and now he works in a fucking general store. Unless Chet’s hoping to use him as a hit man; it wouldn’t be the first time someone’s asked him to do that kind of favor. Maybe there’s a rival business he wants to take over, or maybe another man’s been making eyes at his wife.

“What exactly do you want me to do?” he asks.

“I figure you can start with cleaning, and we’ll see how it goes.”

Ugh, no imagination. Chet may be a scumbag, but he’s as soft as unbaked dough and only half as interesting. Still, he’s the only person in town who makes any goddamn sense. For once, Benny knows exactly where he stands. He’ll play along, then stab him in the back and make his escape.

He can work with this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Advisories: physical injury (with very mild gore), animal death and water inhalation/brief sensation of drowning.


	10. ...darling, it's true...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gradually stops throwing rocks at Benny, gives him a hard shove toward happiness instead*

Every corner of Chet’s general store is clean enough to eat off of, as far as Benny can tell. But Chet puts a broom in his hands and tells him to clean, so he cleans. And while he cleans, he thinks.

He takes note of Chet’s stance, and thinks about using the broom handle to hook an ankle and knock him flat on his ass.

He watches Chet carelessly turn his back, and thinks about snapping the broom in half and stabbing the jagged end into any of half a dozen unprotected vital areas.

He whisks a dustcloth over the shelves, and thinks about stuffing it down Chet’s throat and leaving him bound and gagged in the back room.

He straightens up the displays of merchandise, and finds a set of kitchen knives. That keeps him busy thinking for quite a while.

Chet’s canny enough to have insisted on Benny leaving all his things in Victor’s shack, because it’s hard to take advantage of a man who’s armed with a shotgun. Benny was prepared to respect him some for thinking it through that far. But it looks like he’s just smart enough to get himself into trouble. Fucking knives on his shelf, and he turns his back. He wouldn’t stand a chance against a tribal eight-year-old.

It’s lucky for Chet that these thoughts of killing him aren’t serious plans. Benny doesn’t even much dislike the guy, and he won’t be holding a grudge when he walks away.

And it _will_ be as simple as walking away, Benny’s sure of that. Chet ain’t any more creative than he is smart or strong. Benny would be long gone already, except that he’s starting to find the whole situation funny as hell.

He takes his time organizing the knives, waiting for Chet to catch on and start to sweat. He never does. Even when Benny drifts off to straighten up something else and then drifts back again. Three or four times he does it over the course of an hour, and not once does Chet figure out it might be an unspoken threat.

Oh, well. There are other ways to amuse himself.

Cleaning up a general store is some of the easiest work Benny’s ever done. He ain’t even out of breath by the time Chet’s trying and failing to think up another task.

“I could go over your ledger for you,” Benny offers. Chet glares at him. It’s clear he’s been expecting a lackey who’ll whimper and cringe and take all this seriously. “Want me to count the caps?” he suggests, on the off chance that Chet really is that dumb.

“Do the windows,” Chet snaps.

Do what to the windows? None of them are broken. Do windows need to be cleaned? he wonders for the first time in his life. Maybe they have someone to do that at the Tops. That’s the kind of detail he’s always left to Swank.

As he looks at the unbroken, almost-clean windows, he spots Sunny coming over from the direction of the saloon. Trudy must still be waiting for him to wash her dishes.

Not smiling a bit, Benny shrinks down and gives Chet exactly what he wants.

“Any chance I could stop for a break?” he asks meekly.

“A break? Are you shitting me?”

“It must be about time for breakfast,” he says, even more docile and downcast. His show of submission cues exactly the right reaction from Chet.

“You’ll get breakfast when I say—“ he blusters, just as Sunny comes in the door.

“Chet, have you seen—oh, there you are, Jack.” Her smile lacks its usual warmth as she takes in Benny’s slumped shoulders and bowed head, and the dustcloth in his hand. But the look she gives Chet is downright icy. “Getting some work done, I see.”

“There’s a lot of work to be had in this town.” Chet doesn’t give an inch, showing more backbone than Benny would have expected from him. Most people wouldn’t be able to stand up and face Sunny in this mood.

“I don’t mind,” Benny says helpfully. Jack the slave is eager to please, even if it means getting taken advantage of.

“How much are you paying him?” Sunny asks Chet.

“Paying me?” Benny repeats, like he’s never heard of such a concept.

“Jack, you don’t have to work for free just because somebody tells you to!” She puts herself protectively between him and Chet, and makes that sign with her hand again. Cheyenne comes trotting in from outside and plants herself at Benny’s side.

“You don’t have to act like I’m Caesar,” Chet says sullenly. “I was going to pay him.”

Add lying to the list of things Chet ain’t that good at. Sunny crosses her arms and glares.

“So pay him already.”

Chet reaches behind the counter and hands her a box of shotgun shells. The quality is shit, and they’re likely to jam the gun, which Sunny probably knows as well as he does, but she passes the box to Benny without a word.

“Thanks, Sunny. Oh, by the way—” he pulls her pocketknife out of its hiding place in his boot, flicking the blade out for Chet’s benefit. “I never gave this back to you.”

Chet has the sense to realize Benny’s been armed all this time, and to look nervous about it.

“Why don’t you hang onto it,” says Sunny. “You might need it sometime.”

“Thanks,” Benny says again, and gives her one of the shotgun shells in trade, because it’s bad luck to take a knife as a gift. Only then does he fold the blade away and tuck it back into his boot, smiling blandly at Chet.

Sunny pats him on the arm.

“Trudy’s expecting you. Tell her I’ll be along in a few minutes, after I have a few words with our friend here.”

So Benny leaves, with Cheyenne at his heels. Behind him, he hears Sunny explode: “Chet, I am _ashamed_ of you!”

Benny smiles and gives Cheyenne a scratch behind the ears.

“Breakfast, mutt?”

She barks her agreement.

And he thought being in a small town would be boring.

* * *

Breakfast is a quiet, casual affair. This early in the day, the saloon is empty. Trudy sets him up with a plate of scrambled gecko eggs, a thick gecko steak—grilled up over honey mesquite wood—and a hot cup of coffee. She’s a lot more generous this morning, but she drops the plate on the table and the cup in its saucer with a quip about dishpan hands. He’s gonna pay for this bounty, but hell. After jerking Chet around and landing him in trouble with Sunny, he’s in a good enough mood not to care.

He slips Cheyenne a few scraps under the table when nobody’s lookin’, and she leans up against him adoringly for it. Buries her nose in his side a couple of times like he’s her favorite thing in the whole world.

Benny stuffs the last bite of steak in his mouth and pets her with his free hand. Maybe, when he’s out there in the middle of nowhere again, he’ll get himself a dog. He’ll need something to watch his back; he won’t have a tribe to do it. And he could do a lot worse than an animal whose loyalty can be bought with table scraps.

Trudy swoops in to snatch his plate as soon as he’s put the last mouthful of eggs away and yanks his fork right out of his hand. He jumps at the intrusion.

“Jesus, Trudy,” he squawks with his mouth still half full. “You tryin’ to take my hand off?”

She stops at the sharpness in his voice. Looks at him like she recognizes something about it and can’t place it. Uh oh. Benny turns on the wide, innocent eyes and makes sure to slump to lose some height. The moment of weak recognition withers and she shakes herself of it.

“You just remember who those hands belong to for the next few hours, mister,” Trudy says, bustling toward the back of the bar.

“You’re the boss.” Benny smiles at her until she’s out of sight and then sighs with relief. Close one. He’s got to remember not to break character.

And his character needs to go wash some dishes.

He gives Cheyenne one last pat and gets up. He can wash dishes. He’s never done it before, but he gets the basic principles of soap and water. Turn on the tap, pour in some soap, use a brush to scrub, how hard can it be?

The sink is mostly full of glasses. It’s a bar, not a restaurant, but Trudy does serve food to a few people—like him—who don’t cook for themselves. He finds some plates and bowls, forks and spoons, and underneath it all, the stopper for the sink’s drain. He piles up the plates and such beside the sink, but there’s too many of them and they wobble alarmingly, so he breaks them up into smaller stacks. He throws the silverware in with the glasses and hears the telltale _crack_ of one breaking when the steel hits it.

Whoops. Benny fishes around, pulling out a busted whiskey tumbler. At least it only broke into three pieces. He looks around for somewhere to stash it until he can sneak it out and finally tucks it behind a bucket in the corner.

Teensy accidents aside, that’s a good start. Now, how much Abraxo does he need? Will half a box be enough?

He eyeballs the plates and bowls and all their stains. Lots of grease, lots of dried up stew and sauces. He turns over the box of Abraxo, looking for instructions, but it’s only got some copy about how good the stuff is and an ingredients list.

Huh. He shrugs. Better pour the whole thing in just to be safe.

From the other room, he hears customers starting to trickle into the bar. Trudy pokes her head in and says, “Get a move on, Jack. This time of week the caravans start drifting through town. Lunch rush is going to hit before you know it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And keep the water running. Rinsing goes faster that way.”

She ducks back out again.

Keep the water running? Just...leave it gushing, right down the drain? He turns on the tap. That kind of offhanded suggestion would get somebody killed out in the desert. These people don’t know how good they’ve got it.

Benny picks up a scrub brush and starts in on the glasses. He pops one under the running water, dunks it into the rising soapsuds, cleans it out, and rinses it. Easy enough. Wet, dunk, scrub, rinse. Wet, dunk, scrub, rinse. Benny gets a pretty good rhythm going.

But he can’t shake the feeling he’s doing something wrong. Is the soap supposed to be so...sudsy? The bubbles are expanding, up and up, creeping up until they swallow his forearms, even though the water itself never gets above his wrists.

“Hey, Trudy?” he calls out into the bar, when the bubbles have gotten up so high he’s got to pull away and roll his sleeves up to the shoulder. “You sure I’m supposed to leave the water running? It’s awfully...messy.”

“Dish washing’s messy business, Jack,” she hollers back, and he can hear the clink of liquor bottles and glasses. She sounds busy. Maybe he’d better not raise a stink. “If you aren’t getting wet, you aren’t doing it right. Get back to work.”

Well… The soapsuds start to ooze out over the sides of the sink. That don’t seem quite right to him, but what does he know about it, anyway? If she says to keep the water running, he’ll keep the water running.

So, he keeps at it. Even while those white fluffy clouds of bubbles leak out onto the ground. Even while they gobble up a little patch of floor around his shoes, then start eating those, too. It ain’t like the whole room is full of foam, it’s just a bit of overflow right in front of the sink. Maybe that’s why Trudy wanted it done this way; she can get a clean floor out of the deal, too.

Wet, dunk, scrub, rinse. Repeat. He works at it until all the glasses are finished. By then, most of his front is wet from splashing, and the runoff bubbles tickle his ankles, but he’s halfway through.

Cheyenne, who he left napping by the booth where they shared breakfast like old pals, saunters into the room with a weak wag in her tail. The wag becomes more enthusiastic when she gets close enough to realize there are _bubbles_ to play with.

She pounces on them, pats them with her feet, and looks back and forth between him and the abundant foam. Benny can tell: between this and table scraps, he's her new best friend.

* * *

He’s on his last load of dishes, with all the clean ones already stacked up and sparkling, when Trudy finally comes back. She finds him almost calf-deep in a pile of suds, with Cheyenne bouncing around like a puppy, biting and jumping at them.

“Hi, Trudy.”

“Great balls of fire!” Her hands come away from her sides. One flies to her forehead, the other to her mouth. “What _happened_ in here?”

“Dish washing,” Benny says. Trudy sweeps in beside him and shuts off the water.

“How much Abraxo did you _—“_ She picks up the box and shakes it. “The whole _thing_?”

“That’s…wrong?” he ventures.

Trudy stares at him long enough for him to think she’s going to take his head clean off. But her face contorts, and she makes a noise like she’s holding back laughter because she doesn’t want to be unkind.

“Yeah.” Trudy gestures around--at the apron of bubbles cascading from the sink, the ones swallowing his boots, the foam in Cheyenne’s fur and perched on her snout. “Yeah, I’d say so.”

“Oh.” Benny steps back from the sink, sheepish. “But...look how many dishes I got done?”

At that, even though it’s clear she doesn’t want to, she busts out laughing.

* * *

Trudy makes him clean up his mess and tells him she’ll measure the soap from now on. “ _Because apparently I can’t trust you not to flood the whole bar,_ ” goes unsaid, but it’s heavily implied. And she corrals Cheyenne into her office until Sunny can come collect her. Cheyenne, who’s still so wound up from playing, her tail wags her whole body instead of the other way around.

When Trudy decides Benny’s properly chastised, she sends him off with instructions to dig a barbecue pit out behind the saloon. Careful _, thorough_ instructions. She says there’s a shovel out there, all ready to go, so he bids his ‘boss’ a pink-cheeked farewell, and steps out into the muted sunshine under the Prospector Saloon’s eaves.

A match strikes beside him. “Mornin’.”

After a startle, he glances over to see Easy Pete lighting an old wood pipe full of tobacco. A plume of smoke wafts out of the old man’s mouth, and Benny tries not to be jealous of it. It’s been weeks now since he’s had a cigarette. While the physical _craving_ ain’t as strong as it was in the beginning, the _desire_ for one is still there.

“Afternoon by now,” Benny says, licking his lips instead of throwing himself at the old timer to wrestle the pipe away from him.

“Afternoon, then.” Easy Pete inclines his head and touches the brim of his hat. “Whole town workin’ you to the bone?”

Benny allows the corner of his mouth to quirk up. “Got it in one. How'd you guess?”

He draws on the pipe, slow and steady. “No guess. Man doesn’t get to be my age without learning to notice things.”

The old man stares at him, eye-to-eye, and there’s another dimension added to that last sentence. The kind that makes Benny uneasy.

“Calling yourself Jack, Sunny says.”

Benny doesn’t like the way this conversation is headed. Based on experience, it’s going to end in chores. Blackmail, and chores. “It’s my name.”

“Funny. Don’t look much like a Jack.” Easy Pete breaks the uncomfortable eye-contact and looks out toward town. That’s all he’s got to say about that.

“You’d prefer something more refined, maybe?” He’s had time now to think of plenty of other names he could have picked, but it’s a bit late to go changing it now. The old man doesn’t look too interested, anyway.

“Makes no never mind to me, boy,” he rocks back in his chair and adjusts his pipe. “S’yer own business. Don’t pay to meddle in other folk’s affairs.”

“You ain’t but kiddin’,” Benny mutters under his breath. He’s been hip deep in ‘other folks affairs’ for a full day now and, decent eating and sleeping aside, he’s gettin’ real tired of it.

“Folks in this town, we know how to live and let live. Suppose you must be willing to do the same.”

“Of course.”

“Something else funny...” Easy Pete keeps staring out at the houses and tumbleweeds like Benny ain’t even there. “Most folk, when they meet Victor...wonder what kind of robot he is. ‘Specially desert folk ain’t never seen a machine like that before. Not you.”

“I was a little shook up—“

“Awful fond of Victor, myself,” Easy Pete presses on, like Benny ain’t said a word. “Not so’s I’d show it, but I am. Be real cut up if something was to happen to him.”

“Oh, s-sure, that would be...terrible? He seems like a decent kind of guy.” For a deathbot with a missile launcher for a hand.

“Does he, now?” Easy Pete puffs on his pipe some more. “He’ll be glad to know you think so.”

Benny doesn’t know what to say to that, so he lets it hang.

But it seems Easy Pete’s ready to change the subject anyhow. Without bothering to ease into it, he says, “Sunny gave Chet a talking to. Could hear her all the way across town. Be giving him one myself in awhile. Hate to see that boy in trouble with somebody smarter and more cutthroat than him.”

He looks back over at Benny finally. In the smoky silence, they reach an understanding. Easy Pete knows who he is. He doesn’t care. He’ll keep Benny’s secret, and make sure Chet does too, just to avoid trouble in their quiet little town.

“I appreciate it.”

The tobacco in his pipe is getting down to cinders, so Easy Pete takes it out of his mouth and taps the side of the bowl with his hand. “Best get to digging that barbecue pit.”

“How did—“

“Told you, boy,” he says, “man don’t get to be my age without knowing how to notice things.”

Benny hesitates. But there’s no real reason to, so he ducks his head and starts down the steps.

“By the way,” Easy Pete says to his back.

God, he’s never going to be free of this place, is he? Benny freezes on the last step, turns to look at him with barely disguised dread.

“Town’s quietest a bit after sundown. ‘Bout seven o’clock this time of year.” Easy Pete flips his pipe upside down to clear the ashes out of it. “In case you were wondering when a fella can take a nice lonesome stroll. Even ol’ Victor ain’t usually out and about, round that time. It’s our pinochle hour.”

“Thanks.” And he means it. This is the best news he’s heard in weeks.

* * *

A clot of sandy dirt flies over his shoulder and dissolves into a fine beige mist. Benny sticks the point of the shovel into the ground, slams his boot down on it, and hefts another shovelful.

Up to his hips in a hole of his own making, he can’t help thinking about the last time he was in Goodsprings. Had someone else to do the digging then; kept himself nice and neat for the sake of a proper goodbye to a nameless courier. The short farewell that ended up being the start of a long hello instead.

He ain’t so lucky to have henchmen _now_. Benny wipes away some sweat. Leans back and pops his back. He’s trying to take it slow, pace himself. Not like in Doc Mitchell’s garden. He ain’t gonna make that mistake again. Easy Pete’s given him the all clear to get the hell out of Goodsprings tonight, and he doesn’t see a reason not to do just that.

If he can just keep from hurting himself so bad he can’t _move_ in a few hours…

Trudy said she wanted the hole three feet deep, and he’d say he’s just about there. It’s taken over an hour, and the sun has him dazed even though Trudy keeps bringing him water, but at least he’s fucking done. Finally.

With arms wobbling from overuse, he pulls himself out of the hole and collapses on the sand beside it. Lies there like that, catching his breath, until he can force himself up into a seated position. Christ, these last few days have been hell on his body. Considering all the prior torture and starvation, Benny’s honestly amazed he ain’t dropped dead from the sheer exertion involved in staying alive lately. He’s got sore muscles on top of sore muscles and aches and pains in joints he never noticed he owned before.

Heaving himself to his feet, Benny picks up the shovel and uses it like a walking stick all the way back to the entrance of the saloon. At the door, he tosses it aside and limps into the relative coolness of the building.

It’s between lunch and dinner time, so the place is blessedly empty except for a local or two playing billiards. He drops into a corner booth that’s out-of-the-way, lays his arms on the table and rests his head on them. He can’t see the back of Goodsprings soon enough. Someday, he’ll come back and burn the damn place to the ground.

Somewhere between fantasizing about setting Chet’s hair on fire and blowing the General Store to kingdom come, Benny loses consciousness.

* * *

He doesn’t wake up until the sun is low in the sky. He comes to when Trudy drops a bowl of stew and some more of that fresh bread in front of him.

“Baby, you’re a _saint_ ,” he murmurs in his exhausted stupor. But he comes out of it real quick when he realizes what he’s said. She doesn’t notice the slip, probably because he’s so out of it he's slurring. He shakes his head and sits up, blinking at the bowl.

“Seemed a shame to wake you, Jack.” Trudy sets a glass of water down beside the stew and gives him a smile that teases. “At least until the dinner rush.”

“Dishes?” he asks in a pathetic voice that leans toward whine.

“Dishes.” She pats his arm—a more affectionate gesture than he would have pictured coming from her, but maybe Sunny’s fondness for him is rubbing off on the missus. “You got another half hour at least. Eat.”

* * *

All that hard work in the sun has left his insides feeling hollowed out yet again. Benny's still stashed in the corner with his mouth full of another helping of Trudy's stew when Pussycat walks into the saloon. He almost chokes on a mouthful of squirrel.

Goodsprings. He nearly laughs. Fucking Goodsprings. He finally finds a way out and now a reason to stay walks through the door.

She doesn't see him. She goes straight to the bar and flings down a Legion coyote-head helmet.

“Trade you for a whiskey,” she says in a real tight voice, still not looking around.

“I hope you took the head out this time,” Trudy grumbles. But she softens after a second and swaps out the helmet for a bottle of booze. “Oh, honey, if you don't look like you just lost your best friend.”

“No, not a friend.” She tips the bottle up and drinks like she's drowning and whiskey's air.

Benny creeps up behind her while her attention is occupied, and drops himself into the seat next to hers.

“Pussycat, I got good news and bad news.”

She sprays a mouthful of whiskey at him, smashes the half-full bottle against the bar, and jams the broken edge up into the side of his throat.

He reminds himself not to startle her next time.

She stares at him, wild-eyed.

“Jesus fucking—I found the truck. I thought you _died_.”

“I'm not dead,” he says, a little more casual than an announcement like that deserves.

There's something sweet in her face when she looks at him then, but it only lasts as long as it takes her to draw a breath and steady herself. Carefully, she pulls the broken bottle away from his throat. He ain't even bleeding.

“You're not dead,” she echoes, and gives him a little smirk. “Okay, so what's the _good_ news?”

“Baby, you're breakin' my heart,” he says with mock hurt. The good news is, when she thought she was living in a world without a Benny, she looked real broken up about it. That's good news for _him_ , which is the only kind that counts.

“I'll break your fucking neck if you ever sneak up on me like that again.” She throws a few caps down on the whiskey-soaked counter and stands up. “Sorry about the mess.”

Trudy just shrugs and waves her away.

“Hey, where you going?” he asks, and this time his complaint is for real. She can't walk out on him _now_.

Automatically, Benny turns to follow the lady out of the bar, but before he can get halfway turned around, Trudy’s hand comes down on his wrist to hold him to the spot.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” she demands.

“What—but—” Benny twists around to watch his Pussycat vanish through the open door. Now, he _knows_ Trudy was witness to their tender little reunion. Can’t she see he’s got more on his mind than her sink full of dishes? “She’s gettin’ away!” he complains. “Come on, Trudy, where’s your sense of romance?”

“I dunno, could be you’ll find it under all this liquor that’s soaking into my bar.” She thrusts a damp rag into his hand. “Or it might be somewhere under all this broken glass all over my floor.” She gives him a look that softens all her hard edges. “And you might oughtta check the bottom of your bowl before the stew gets cold. Don’t worry yourself, Jack. She won’t go far.” She starches up again. “Now, get back to work, you scruffy layabout. What do I pay you for, anyhow?”

“To hold up the bar and look pretty. It’s good advertising,” he says as he starts to wipe up the spill. Trudy sniffs to show what she thinks of that, and Benny has to pause to run his hand over the beard that’s been shadowing his jaw these last few days. His face fur comes in slow, but he’s got enough of it now to keep him from looking too much like himself, and that’s been his only concern. But, _scruffy_? He’ll have to hunt up a razor when he’s ready to get out of here.

He sweeps up the glass and drops it in the trash. He’ll haul all that over to the ravine the town uses for a dump later, if he doesn’t skip town first.

The bar’s starting to fill up with the evening rush, so Benny snatches up his bowl and does justice to the stew, but quick. Then, seeing Trudy’s busy mixing up drinks for a long line of thirsty customers, he puts it in the sink and makes for the back door.

“ _Wash_ it, you bum,” she calls after him.

Damn. She’s good.

At this point, Benny knows he could just walk out the door anyway and lose nothing by it. But now that he’s got to know her, something in him balks at leaving her to handle the mob scene all on her own.

She says Pussycat ain’t going anywhere. Maybe she knows better than him. And it could be it’d do the courier some good to be the one having to wait around for Benny to come to her for a change. As long as it’s not _too_ long.

He fills up the sink and gets his hands on the measuring cup Trudy has already filled with Abraxo, not even bothering to wonder how it’s come to this. The leader of the Chairmen washes dishes now, so what else is new?

There’s not that much to do, so he figures he can still get out in the next few minutes. Then Trudy comes and dumps another load down next to him. The sink’s full already? Pussycat’s gonna think he’s standing her up. If she’s waiting for him at all, but he doesn’t dwell on that.

Trudy doesn’t stop to chat, but her flushed face and generally harried expression let him know that her work is about to get a whole lot harder before it gets easier. A peek into the main room tells him why: a trade caravan is passing through town, one of the too-damn-big operations that goes around with more hands than it knows what to do with. And it looks like every one of ‘em is crowded up to the bar, yelling at Trudy that they know what they want and they want it _now_.

Without hesitation, he follows her out into the fray and lets himself in behind the bar. House was onto something useful when he made them learn to make all the old-timey cocktails.

“What’ll you have, pal?” he asks the first one who catches his eye. Trudy shoots him a startled, grateful look and doesn’t interfere.

This one’s already drunk and surly.

“Jus’ gimme a beer, I’m fuckin’ dry.”

“Really? You should see a doctor about that.”

He makes a note on the tab Trudy keeps behind the bar for just that purpose, not stopping to consider what she’ll make of the mix of city writing and tribal trail signs he falls back on when he’s in a hurry.

When that’s done, and the customer has a hand full of beer bottle, he gets grabbed by another. Soon, he falls into a rhythm just like with the dishes earlier in the day, only with less mess.

Turn, greet patron, pour drink, make smart remark, turn—the pattern breaks suddenly when there’s no one left demanding a drink, and Benny stumbles and cracks his hip against the bar. He has to blink and shake his head a little before he remembers that he’s more than just a bartending robot programmed to serve.

“You’re a godsend,” Trudy says, patting him on the shoulder. She wipes a strand of sweat-damp hair back from her forehead and gives him a nudge toward the mountain of dirty glasses they’ve collected.

“Aw, Trudy…”

“Don’t you ‘aw, Trudy’ me! Those dishes won’t wash themselves. I might be willing to talk about giving you a raise, though. If you’re nice.”

“Oh, I’m always nice.”

He carries an armful of dirty glasses to the sink and starts scrubbing. The water’s gone cold, but he’s got plenty of soap—he knows now—so he doesn’t bother to drain the sink and start fresh.

He never thought it’d be such a kick tending bar. He’s always poured drinks for himself and his personal guests, and he’s helped out a time or two at the Tops, especially on nights when tourists wanted to get fresh with the lady bartenders and cocktail waitresses. His presence was usually enough to keep them from causing a disturbance, so he learned a thing or two and made himself useful. But he’s never had to move at such a frantic pace. He feels almost like he used to after a big hunt or a brawl. He wouldn’t mind working with Trudy again sometime.

A cold, wet nose bumps against the back of his arm while he’s washing.

“Not now, Cheyenne, I’m busy.” Jesus, feed the mutt some scraps _one_ time, and she thinks she owns a guy.

The dog growls, a low, rusty sound that’s not a bit like Cheyenne’s sharp little yips. Benny freezes even before he feels the teeth chomp down on his elbow.

It doesn’t break the skin, at least, but the bite is firm enough to show that it means business. Benny looks down, not at Cheyenne, but at a cyberdog.

The...the King’s cyberdog? What the fuck would the King be doing in Goodsprings? And more important, what does he want with Benny? They know each other to say hello to, but it’s never been anything more than that, good or bad.

The dog gives its head a shake that tugs on Benny’s arm. It’s been sent to fetch, and it ain’t gonna be put off.

“Trudy, help,” he says, only half-joking. “A monster’s got me.” She looks in on him and laughs.

“Sorry, honey, I forgot about your friend. Go on, then.”

His...what? He _knows_ this is the King’s dog. There’s no chance Trudy is telling him that Pussycat owns _the King’s dog_. Although, now that he thinks about it, he does remember her bringing a rusty scrap-beast with her into Caesar’s tent, but he never got a good enough look at it to say if it’s the same one. He had other things on his mind.

Other things, like him and her and the sort of reunion that makes a guy remember he’s happy to be alive. The sort of reception he hopes is ready for him, wherever she is now.

And she _is_ waiting for him, isn’t she? If Trudy’s read of the situation is anywhere close to right, if the mutt has been sent to retrieve him, she must be.

So he goes. He’d go even without the dog tugging his sleeve; even if Goodsprings grew up around his ankles to try and make him put roots down right here in this bar.

‘Cause for all his flaws, and they’re too many to count, Benny ain’t the kind of guy to keep a woman waiting when he’s got any kind of choice about it. Especially not one like her.


	11. ...heaven can wait...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was never gone. I updated in a timely fashion. I am a reliable, responsible adult.
> 
> /Jedi mind trick
> 
>  **Advisories** : implied sexual content, problematic language, and as our leads have a violent and adversarial relationship history, undertones of dysfunction.

The dog herds him up toward the cemetery. Of course it fucking does. It takes him along the same path he took that first night, back when Pussycat was nothing but an inconvenient warm body standing between him and his ambitions. He lets it.

The farther he gets from Goodsprings and all its people, the closer he gets to himself. “Jack” tumbles from his shoulders like a weight, leaving nothing but Benny behind. Without hesitation, he leaves that mask in the tracks of his dusty footprints.

From the doorway of the saloon to the top of the hill, the gentle, lazy lope of a country bumpkin becomes a New Vegas swagger. Even the words that tumble in his mind shift like the sands. The old ring-a-ding parlance shakes up from underneath his false Goodsprings self, unearthed like the pre-war relic it is.

When he reaches the cemetery and its rotting wood and swirling sand, he’s back to himself again. He finds _her_ there, sitting with her feet dangling down into her own open grave. The dull glow of her cigarette is a beacon in the gathering dark.

“Can I bum one of those?” he asks when he gets close enough.

He doesn’t startle her this time. She hands him a cigarette, and lights it for him with his own lighter. Benny considers trying to take that back, and decides against it. He sits down beside her and takes a long, deep drag. The sound he makes when he lets go of the smoke is just short of obscene. Oh, that's good. How long has it been? Close to a month now?

Pussycat doesn’t speak, but her foot bumps his as she swings it side to side. Benny peers down into the darkness of the shallow grave.

“Would have thought someone would have filled your hole by now.”

Her shoulders twitch, in what turns out to be a suppressed laugh and not the prelude to a slap in the mouth.

“Somebody did,” she says. “Just not _this_ one.”

“’Somebody.’ Anyone I know?”

“Oh, just some loser in a tacky suit." She stares out into the night, smoke curling from her lips. "Ring any bells?”

“ _Tacky_?” Benny rubs his chin with the pad of his thumb, trying not to notice just how whiskery it is, and pretends thoughtfulness. “Not a one.”

She pretends right along with him. “Maybe if I’d said ‘cheap’ instead?”

“Come _on_ , baby. What do you take me for? I don’t run with cheap and tacky.”

“Good policy." She finishes the last of her smoke. Flicks the butt aside. "Keep competition to a minimum.”

Benny laughs at that. “Ouch.”

Pussycat leans back in the dirt, not far enough to rest on her elbows, but far enough to look slouchy and relaxed. “I brought your jacket with me. You can have it if you ask nice.”

His jacket? The one he thought he’d never see again?

“Baby, you kill me!” And he’ll ask for it as nice as she wants him to.

“Be careful with that Chairman lingo,” she says as her hand creeps up the back of his neck to twist through his hair. “’Baby, you kill me.’ You know there’s a hole right here just waiting to be filled.”

“Just one?” he says, because he don’t know what’s good for him. His eyes search out hers in the dark, voice sliding into a more secretive register. “Bet we could think of at least two or three, if we put our heads together.”

She gives his hair a tug that’s too rough to count as playful. “You’re slime.”

“You like it.”

“I’ve got brain damage." Her eyes glitter with something like accusation, but softened, the edges sanded off by humor. "I like lots of things I shouldn’t.”

Benny leans closer, and with her almost reclining in the sand, he could be on her in a hot minute if he wanted. If _she_ also wanted. His eyes fall to her mouth, then bob back up again. “So what’s my excuse?”

She doesn’t retreat in the face of his obvious overture, and her hand in his hair slips down the back of his neck. He takes that as a good sign. “Stupidity? Multiple concussions? No sense of self preservation? I mean, take your pick.”

“Pussycat...“

His hand creeps toward her waist. And if he ain’t wrong, she’s smiling at him, warm and welcoming.

“Benny...”

Her hands find his shoulders, gently clutching, encouraging. So he goes for it. Benny lunges for her mouth like a man dying of thirst.

And just like that, he’s falling into empty space. Before he can make sense of why that is, he lands flat on his back.

“Oof—” he grunts, too stunned to say anything clever. He’s looking up at the night sky, and her face silhouetted by the moon as she looks down at him—and the broad’s _laughing_ at him. Well, why shouldn’t she? She shoved him, didn’t she?

“Ha!” She points down at him. “Filled my hole!” She laughs again. “And you're on fire, by the way.”

Benny cranes his neck to find his cigarette rolling to the middle of his chest, the scattered embers merrily gobbling up the breast pocket of his shirt.

“Shit!” He slaps at the licking flames before they can really get going. Pussycat sits there on the edge of her own shallow grave, with her hands on her knees, laughing herself sick while he smothers the fire.

“Yuk it up, baby.” His fingers are scorched almost as bad as his shirt, but at least that’s one crisis averted, he thinks—and then a handful of dirt rains down on his face.

“Sorry!" she says, all innocence. "I was aiming for the fire."

Benny holds his arms up and out, gesturing for her to continue. “Well, go on. Finish the job. I’m already down here. Might as well put my out of my misery.”

She claps her hands together to brush the dust off the palms and surprises him by dropping down into the grave after him. “Why would I want to do a thing like that?”

“—when you can keep me _in_ my misery, right?” he asks. “That where this is going?”

“Aw, Benny.” It’s a tight fit, but she kneels down to straddle his legs, and shimmies up his body. He don’t trust that one little bit, especially not when her fingers start circling the buttons of his shirt. “Had it as bad as all that, huh?”

“You kiddin’?” She works the top button of his shirt loose. His eyebrows jump. “ _You_ saw what the Deathclaw did to that truck. It almost did that to _me_.”

Her fingers follow his collar bone and undo the next button. The skin beneath his burned up pocket is exposed to open air and she touches it, checking for burns. “Looks to me like you got out of it in one piece.”

“Yeah, well, not for lack of tryin’.” He takes a chance and puts his hands around her waist. She doesn’t shrug him off, but he doesn’t let that lull him into a false sense of security— _this time_. “Never mind what followed was fucking _Goodsprings_.”

“Not a fan?” The third button comes undone and she slides her hands beneath it.

“Pussycat, I take it you _know_ these lunatics.” He lowers his voice. No one’s likely to bother them down here, but he’s gotten used to good old Victor popping out from behind unlikely bits of cover when he least expects it. “Baby, I have to ask—what is _wrong_ with these cats?”

“What did they do to you?” Her voice is dripping with false sympathy, but he thinks there might be a hint of the real thing buried down deep underneath it.

“Well, for one thing, Trudy, the bartender? She gave me a _job_.”

A laugh bubbles out of her, unexpected as hot springs in the desert. It’s beautiful, even if she is laughing at him. And hey, at least this time he ain’t on fire.

“I’m serious,” he insists, even as he starts to chuckle too. “Sunny gave me a _gun_ and took me hunting. That doctor can’t be turning a profit. Chet’s all right, but he’s—he’s just so _bad_ at blackmail...”

“Sounds about right,” she says, giggling helplessly. For Christ’s sake, he never pegged her as a giggler.

“Pussycat, I’m _living in Victor’s house._ ”

Even that doesn’t seem to surprise her. He should probably just give up.

“Getting the VIP treatment, huh?” She tries to hold down the laughter, but it just keeps coming.

“They keep giving me free food! Tell me that’s not strange.”

“Oh, Benny. Poor, stupid Benny.”

He doesn’t exactly appreciate her calling him stupid, but she pulls him close and kisses him before he can say so. It ain’t long before he’s let go of most of his objections. He barely even notices how his singed fingertips ache where he’s holding her.

She leans back so she can look at him, a definite spark of amusement in her eyes. But she keeps her body pressed up close to his, and all those curves are just like he remembers, soft and warm and real.

“Fucking Goodsprings,” she says with a shrug. “You know, if you had killed me in _Sloan_ , I might have stayed dead.”

“Should I be glad?” he asks with a guarded expression. “’Cause after you threw me in a hole, I gotta admit I’m on the fence about that.”

Instead of an answer, she kisses him again, soft and slow. Chaste, almost, the brush of her lips on his. The heat that crackles over his skin ain’t so pure, but he's too surprised to do much about it. Arms slide behind his neck, relaxed but unbending—her fingers locking with each other somewhere behind his head. His hands find the small of her back and cling there loosely, fingers dipping into the curve of her spine.

The kiss grows in intensity, until his head swims and he’s feeling overheated all over.

When her lips break contact from his, she doesn't meet his eyes. The angle of her head puts her face close to his—near enough to press his lips to her cheekbone if he can ever get his brain together long enough to think of it.

This close to her, Benny gets the ghost of the clean sweat and cactus flower smell of her hair. Some dirt, too, but he's willing to ignore that. “Baby, after everything you put me through, you're gonna kiss me like that?”

Her eyes slant to his, and there's mischief there. “I can punch you, if you'd prefer.”

“It'd be a lot more familiar,” he says uncertainly, and it’s barely a joke. “But—“ Benny runs his hands through her hair and gathers her to him again. “—maybe some other time.”

 

* * *

 

There ain’t much room to move at the bottom of a grave, and the dirt and the night air are cold as hell. When they finally climb out, Benny’s as sore as he’s been after everything _else_ he’s done in Goodsprings, and for an entirely different reason. But he thinks this one was worth it.

“That was...” Pussycat gives him a sideways look. He can’t quite tell in the dark, but he hopes she’s smiling. “Still didn’t leave an impression.”

“Victor’s got a bed,” he suggests, glossing over that dig.

“Third time’s the charm, huh?” She takes him by the hand. “Let’s go.”

 

* * *

 

Morning, or close enough to morning that it makes no difference, brings the feeling of a body melted over him like a pat of butter. He’s warm and content, and through the haze of sleep he thinks it would be real fitting for her to wake him with a kiss.

Instead, she pops him on the chin and whispers, “You’re snoring.”

“ _You_ snore. It’s all you.” He starts to go back under, but then—it happens—there’s a rumble through his head all the way down into his chest, a sound like the splintering of rotten wood—and he wakes himself up with his own beastly snort.

He feels her shake against him—a suppressed laugh at his expense—and the warmth at his side shifts, rustles under sheets, and slips away. There are the thumps of a couple of boots hitting the ground and he hears her moving around to get dressed.

Benny feels around on the mattress where Pussycat used to be, more for effect than to really search for her. “Baby, you gonna skip out on an injured man in need of your tender, loving care?” He holds up his mildly blistered fingers. “How can you be so cruel?”

“D’I look like a nurse to you?”

He cracks open one eye and finds her tying her boot lace. “Bet we could find you a lab coat.”

“And nothing else, I bet,” she says with a smirking glance his way. “I’ve got places to be, Ben-Man, places that require clothes.”

“Name ‘em.” He rolls over to snag her around the waist. She doesn’t resist being pulled back into bed. “I’ll make ‘em change their policies.”

He gets to kiss her once, twice, before she wrestles her lips away long enough to speak. “Benny, I’ve got a date with Hoover Dam.”

He ignores her and mutters against her lips, “Well, don’t let me keep you.”

“And—“ she manages breathlessly, in between his groping hands and busy mouth, “—you’ve got a date with Vegas.”

 _That_ gets his attention. “I’ve got a what now?”

“Well, you don’t want to stay _here_ , do you?” She pulls his hands off the goods and pins them to the mattress on either side of his head. “Washing dishes?” She kisses him just long enough to be a tease. “Being neighborly?”

“Staying here— _right_ here—might have its good points.” He throws his leg over and flips her onto her back. Now she’s the one underneath him with her hands trapped, and he can already see her scheming to reverse the positions again.

“I’m starting to think—“

“Yeees?” He dips his head to nip at her neck.

“That you—“

BANG.

The shack door slams inward, almost coming off its hinges. A Securitron shape bears down on the entrance and comes up short.

“Beggin’ your pardon!” comes that tinny voice that will haunt Benny’s nightmares for the foreseeable future.

Benny hangs his head with a sigh.

“Hi, Victor.”

Can a Securitron blush? Victor rocks back on his wheel, like he’s sheepish.

“ _Victor_?” Pussycat echoes. Her voice slides into a whisper, just loud enough for Benny to hear, “Fucking Goodsprings. Doesn’t anything stay dead around this place?”

Her hands sneaks out of his and under the pillow. Benny can just see her fingers wrapping around the grip of the .22 she left there in the night. Fat lot of good that’ll do against a deadly cowboy-bot.

Wait, are they going to start shooting each other? Why does the idea bother him? For fuck’s sake, he ain’t gettin’ attached to that twangy rust bucket, is he?

“We’re a little busy,” Benny says, hoping Victor will have the good manners to put off whatever this is until there’s no juicy Benny-shaped target in the area.

“’Bout as busy as a one-legged cat in a sandbox, I see,” Victor agrees. Benny wonders who programmed him to spout this folksy gibberish. “Terrible sorry for intruding, only Easy Pete’s been sayin’ he reckoned you’d run for the hills by now. I should’ve knocked, asked if you were decent. Y’know, you’re liable to catch old _and_ pneumonia like that.”

“Right. Sorry, I got...” Pussycat, still reaching for her gun, manages to look smugly amused. “ _Distracted_.” Benny gives her a little pinch to make her stop giving him that look. “We’ll be out of here before you know it.”

“Suppose I’ll make myself scarce.” Victor angles himself toward Pussycat. “Ma’am. I apologize for slammin’ the door like that. Ain’t got no thumbs on me, y’see.”

And he’s gone, slamming the door shut behind him with a bigger crash than he made coming in. It knocks one of the boards off the windows. A slice of sunrise falls through the hole left behind.

 

* * *

 

Much as Benny would like to pick up where they left off, the mood is killed. So they both get their pants back on. Pussycat wanders to the window, watching Victor trundle off as she buttons her shirt.

“I killed him,” she says, turning the words over to see how they taste. “I didn’t like to do it, but he came at me with a missile launcher.” She looks over her shoulder at Benny. “Something about me breaking into House’s secret lair and bashing his head in with a golf club. The robots didn’t like it.”

That’s a story he needs to hear. They’ll come back to it. Maybe they’ll even hash out how good old Victor got into an intact body, and why he ain’t out for revenge. But for now, all he can do is look at her, framed by the window and washed in morning light.

There’s no glass to press her up against, but maybe he can improvise.

When his shoes are tied, he sidles up beside her, then behind her.

“ _Don’t_ start—“ she warns, even as his arms wrap around her and his chin nestles in the groove of her collar bone. “Places to be, remember?”

“Yeah, with clothes and everything.”

They stand like that in silence, and it’s all too brief.

“Never did tell me ‘bout that date in Vegas you got planned for me, Pussycat.”

“With House gone, I need somebody to hold down the fort in Vegas. Somebody I can trust.”

“Me?”

“Hell no, not you!” She turns her head to the side enough to look at him. “Do I look like a complete idiot? _You_ get to deliver a package to the one holding down the fort. And I only half trust you not to break the fucking thing.”

“Gee, thanks,” he says dryly, but he smiles a little and don’t take it personally. She’s right not to trust him.

“You can wait for me, after.” She looks back out at the horizon and shrugs. “If you want.”

“Wait for you? Pussycat, do I detect sentimentality?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

She might deny it in not so many words, but he can tell. He pretends like that doesn’t elate him and needles her instead.

“Far be it from me to ruin the moment, baby, but you and me? A love affair? We ain't got a snowball’s chance.” Benny pauses, thinks about that. “Say, what is a snowball, anyhow?”

She ignores that crack and slants her eyes at him. “Who does?”

“Just off the top of my head? People who _don't_ meet at an execution. You are one dippy dame if you’re really sweet on _me_ , Pussycat.”

“You're a known quantity.” He must look as puzzled as he feels because she smiles, and clarifies, “You're an opportunist and I know it.”

“That’s fair,” he says, with uncharacteristic honesty and a perfectly characteristic smirk. “I’m gonna screw you over, y’know.”

“You mean you’re gonna _try_.”

“Y’know,” he says, pressing closer to her, pressing his luck, like he’s always done, like he’s going to keep doing, “between all the trying-to-screw-over, there’s going to be a whole lot of the other kind—”

She turns her head toward him, just so she’s maddeningly not quite close enough for kissing. “You think so, huh?”

“I sure hope so, Pussycat,” he mutters, burying his nose in the back of her neck. “Pussycat...”

“Mm?”

“Call me old fashioned—“

“You’re old fashioned,” she says, without missing a beat. “You want me to call you an amaretto sour next? You’ve got weird kinks, Benny.”

He huffs a laugh into her hair. “Baby, if we’re gonna go all in on this ‘grand romance doomed to failure’ clambake, I think there’s something I got a right to know.”

“Yeah?”

“What’s your name?”

She smirks at him. "Bit late for introductions, don't you think?"

"Humor me, baby." But he gets the distinct impression she ain't gonna. Maybe this is one of those questions he don't want an answer to. Oh, shit, maybe she doesn't remember. Maybe he blew her name out along with some of her brains; it just flew out along with the common sense. "You do... _have_ a name?"

Pussycat laughs at him and turns some more, and this time she  _is_ close enough for kissing. Her arms go around his neck like she wants him to, and who is he to turn her down?

As their lips close the distance, she murmurs, “Shut up and enjoy the sunrise, stupid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! I think. Oh god. Am I done? I think I'm done. I don't want to be done! Sequel? Will I? Won't I? Aaaah!
> 
> Quick shout out to SynthApostate: bestie, beta, the [meaning, the inspiration](https://youtu.be/idCil0mNhoo?t=50s), the [wind beneath my wings](https://youtu.be/jorJh8DTMVM?t=1m18s), and all that cheesy power ballad shit. She pulled this story's fat out of the fire as often as I stuck Benny's in.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read, whether you kudosed, commented or lurked! <3 You are much appreciated! And I'll get around to answering previous neglected comments over the next day or two, once I'm done finessing some neglected WIPs.
> 
> See you around the wasteland!


End file.
